


Looking for Something

by NeonPistachio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, M/M, Mycroft isn't good at feelings, Mystical Creatures, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Slightly creepy in a fluffy way, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonPistachio/pseuds/NeonPistachio
Summary: Mycroft has had nightmares for as long as he can remember. Logically he assumes it started around the time he began to understand Eurus’ psychosis, but he can’t remember sleeping particularly restfully before then.There are times when he doesn’t dream at all for a day or two, which is why it takes him a week to notice the nightmares have stopped.





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft has had nightmares for as long as he can remember. Logically he assumes it started around the time he began to understand Eurus’ psychosis, but he can’t remember sleeping particularly restfully before then. He’s trained his body to work on little sleep out of necessity; if he doesn’t need hours of unbroken rest he can’t miss it when he’s woken twice or three times a night from his dreams, shaking and sweating and biting back screams. 

He doesn’t have them every night. There are times when he doesn’t dream at all for a day or two, which is why it takes him a week to notice the nightmares have stopped. 

Mycroft goes to bed around his usual time, feeling more rested due to the lack of nightmares but still tired. His sleep debt is as vast as the ocean, but he tries not to let it drag him under. 

He wakes hours later to a text notification from Anthea. He’s still under the duvet, bad dreams haven’t woken him and the sensation is so novel he keeps his eyes closed for a moment, breathing steadily to enjoy it. 

_There’s someone in the room._

The feeling in his hind brain sends a shot of adrenaline through him and he moves his hand under the pillow to where the holstered gun rests. He tries to make the move seem like a natural one made whilst sleeping but he must not manage it. The feeling of another person in the room vanishes a second later as he grips the gun and opens his eyes. There’s no one there.

Imagining things. Or the remnants of a nightmare. He checks the internal and external cameras to be sure. Nothing.

The text from Anthea forces him out of bed. It’s not too time sensitive and it’s early enough that he could go back to sleep but he feels wide awake and amazingly refreshed thanks to the adrenaline.  
The next night he sleeps well again. This is the longest by far he’s managed without nightmares, and while he knows this cannot last and expects every night to be woken by dreams of fire, blood, Sherlock’s body or Eurus’ voice it’s a pleasant reprieve. 

This time he’s woken by the chime of the motion detector outside the front door. His eyes flick open and for a moment he thinks he sees something glittering on the edge of his vision. It’s gone before he can focus properly on it.

The alert is nothing more than a stray cat and he goes back to bed. It’s nearing three am. Even he doesn’t get up this early if he doesn’t have to. He falls asleep again but it’s broken, not by nightmares but simply because he isn’t used to sleeping this much. At one point he opens his eyes and catches sight of the glitter again. It vanishes almost immediately. Once he thinks he sees wide black eyes watching him and that jerks him to awareness, but again they vanish. This seems more than the usual nightmares. 

Mycroft can’t drop off again after that, lying uneasily awake until the silence and dark becomes too much and he gets up to begin his day.

The next night Mycroft works through til dawn, catching a catnap in his office. No dreams and no semi-hallucinations. In the evening he returns to his house, sleeps once more in his own bed. This time he’s woken by the bed moving, his brain screaming _Intruder!_

There’s a dent in the covers next to him. It’s faintly warm.

The cameras outside his bedroom door show nothing. Immaterial. Someone has gained access to his house. Mycroft has never thought of it as his sanctuary, he’s too often disturbed in it and his mind gives him no rest no matter where he is, but it is his space and the thought of anyone uninvited is not only unsettling, it’s a security breach.

He gets up immediately, throws on the nearest clothes and goes to his office. He orders a full sweep of the house, a system scan and overhaul for the cameras and security system ignoring the fact that it’s a Saturday. If his house is compromised and they cannot fix it he will have to move.

He sleeps at his club that night. It will take at least two days to complete the checks and upgrade the system. Mycroft’s mood throughout is eased by the continuing lack of nightmares.

The bedrooms at his club are almost monastic in their plainness, but it’s a plainness mediated by good quality. The rugs are muted but thick, the beds singles but soft and amply provided with pillows, the walls bare except for a mirror. 

Mycroft sleeps lightly here. The door’s lock is very sturdy but there is none of the security that surrounds his house. He’s aware that it wouldn’t take much to infiltrate the building. Still, the lock should hinder any intruder for a few minutes at least.

He doesn’t expect to wake to a figure standing beside the bed, glittering nails five inches long nearing his face, dark eyes shining unnaturally.

He sits up with a shout, hand already on his gun. The figure vanishes.

He lets his hand drop. Nightmare again. It couldn’t last. Though this is not his run of the mill dreams, based as they are in reality and experience.

Strangely though, when he lies down and clears his mind to sleep the nightmare doesn’t return for the rest of the night.

*

The team tasked with checking the security of his house comes up with nothing. The cameras are working, the system hasn’t been tampered with physically or electronically and there is no evidence that anyone unauthorised has been in the house. Mycroft frowns when reading the report. This could mean… he shakes the thought off.

He returns to his house in the evening. He feels momentarily reluctant about the idea of nightmare-filled sleep but dismissed the thought as pointless. There’s nothing in the nightmares he hasn’t seen before. 

He’s woken once more by the bed moving. This time he feigns sleep well enough that whomever it is isn’t alerted. It takes all his willpower to remain still. He can hear them breathing and there are faint clicks and stirrings in the air around his head, telling him whomever it is is doing something. He cracks his eyes open the slightest amount. Glittering nails are flicking in front of his face and dark eyes seem to be focusing on something a few inches above his head. One of the nails skims through his hair and he can’t help himself.

Mycroft’s eyes fly open and his hand shoots out, grabbing at the thing’s wrist. He has one moment where he feels skin and the dark eyes focus on him, before whatever it is melts away and he’s left alone in an empty room. 

Right. 

He dresses very calmly, full three piece suit, pocket watch and accessories, hair combed and lightly gelled into place. As he leaves the house he picks out his favourite umbrella.

He reaches the office quickly due to the lack of traffic at this time of night. He clears his desk of the few reports that have come in since he left and writes detailed notes for Anthea about the meetings and operations scheduled for the next two weeks.

When Anthea arrives she finds him seated at his desk, finishing the last of the briefings to be given to the Prime Minister. 

‘Sir? Did something come in?’ 

Mycroft looks up. ‘Anthea. I need you to do something for me, and the consequences may mean I would need to take a leave of absence. I’ve done as much as I can to cover the next two weeks, and beyond that Lady Smallwood should be able to step in.’

Anthea blinks, the only motion that betrays her shock. This is unprecedented behaviour on Mycroft’s part.

‘Sir, if someone’s blackmailing you there is very little that would not be sanctioned in order to bring it to a resolution.’

‘It’s not blackmail. I need you to reschedule my meetings for today and make me an appointment with the best psychologist you can, one with enough clearance that I can actually speak to them.’ 

Anthea blinks again. This is the most emotion Mycroft has seen from her since the issue in Paris.  
‘Very well sir, I’ll get it set up.’ She walks out, already typing into her omnipresent blackberry. 

Mycroft sits back. It’s a Monday morning, there’s nothing more he can do now and he doesn’t want to spread panic by alerting anyone else to the situation just yet. The trust he and Anthea have built between them will keep her quiet until he gives her the word. With that in mind, and with any work for the day either completed or postponed, he goes to find breakfast.

He’s in the middle of a rather decent fruit salad when the text comes in.

_Appointment with Dr. S Ngabu. 10.30 Vauxhall Cross._

He doesn’t deal in dread; it’s a waste of time. Instead he goes back to the fruit salad and reaches for a newspaper. 

*

Mycroft sits across from Dr. Ngabu in one of the SCIF rooms in Vauxhall Cross. There will be no notes taken during this session and she had to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement to even be told the name of her appointment. In the face of this she seems remarkably calm. 

‘What made you request this meeting?’

Mycroft has already decided to be as honest as he can during the session. The unusual idea gives him a strange feeling, but for her to get an accurate idea…

‘I have suffered from vivid nightmares since childhood, and I have never before gone more than four nights without having one. In the last twelve days I have not had a single nightmare. I have, however, begun experiencing visual, auditory and tactile hallucinations. My family has a history of severe mental illness and I believe I am beginning to display symptoms.’

‘The lack of nightmares worries you?’

‘My job involves overseeing a vast quantity of information and resources and assigning solutions to problems. If my mind is beginning to see the content of my nightmares as acceptable outcomes that do not trouble me, then I believe it would be best that I be isolated so as not to cause harm to others.’

Dr. Ngabu nods. ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Can you tell me more about what your job involves?’

*

An hour later Mycroft stalks out of the building and into the waiting car. Evidently even when he’s trying to be honest he can think rings around others. ‘Job related stress’ indeed. ‘Try to unwind.’ He won’t be back for the recommended follow up appointment.

If he can fool the best psychiatrist available into thinking he’s just overstressed, he needs to speak to someone he can’t fool. 

‘Baker Street,’ he tells his driver. 

Sherlock will be delighted to tell him if he’s going insane.

*

Sherlock and John are out when he arrives, so he picks the lock – his keys are at his house – and settles down to wait. It’s not long before the two return. 

‘Mycroft. To what do I owe the honour of having you break into my flat?’

Mycroft grimaces. ‘I would like to request a consultation.’

Sherlock drops into the chair opposite him. ‘I’m not taking any cases from you. I’m too busy right now.’

Mycroft takes a deep breath. ‘Please, brother mine. This is… personal.’

At that Sherlock sits up and stares at him. Mycroft can almost see the deductions being made. Abruptly, Sherlock turns to John. ‘I used the last of the milk. You need to get more.’

John, patient soul that he is, just looks at Sherlock. ‘If you want to speak to your brother alone you can just say. But I will go and get milk, and something for dinner too.’ Sherlock opens him mouth to protest but is forestalled by John. ‘You are going to eat something tonight. I’ll make curry.’ He turns and leaves and Sherlock subsides into his chair. 

Mycroft watches this interaction with a feeling of curiosity. His brilliant, difficult brother living more or less contentedly with someone so painfully _normal_. Day in and day out, observing the same routines, making stultifying observations and comments about ‘how the day went.’ Mycroft can’t imagine anything more likely to drive him to drastic measures in order to escape.

‘Five hundred,’ Sherlock says suddenly. Mycroft makes a protesting noise and Sherlock interrupts. ‘Five hundred, and I won’t tell Mummy. It’s John’s birthday next week, I need it to get him something.’ Mycroft, who knew and anticipated this and stopped at a cash point especially, hands over the money without a word.

Sherlock takes a long look at him. ‘You’ve been sleeping more.’

Mycroft nods. ‘The nightmares have stopped. The last twelve nights I have had no dreams, and instead I have experienced several hallucinations. I saw a psychiatrist today.’ He sniffs. ‘She thinks it’s job related stress causing me to over-react.’

Sherlock’s eyebrows ask if he’s sure it’s not.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Mycroft snaps. ‘I’ve been dealing with stress since _she_ began to talk.’ _She. Eurus._ Locked away since childhood, forbidden to communicate with the outside world. Uncle Rudy had done his best to keep her safe from herself and the other inmates but it was a guard, pushed too far, who eventually gunned her down. He shudders. ‘If I was going to be affected it would have happened by now.’

Sherlock tips his head in agreement. ‘You worry you’re going to become like her. No emotions, no restraint, no remorse. You say caring isn’t an advantage but you have to at least care about the outcome for your jobs.’

Mycroft nods. ‘Precisely.’

‘What about the hallucinations?’

‘Visual, auditory and tactile. Several times at my house and once at my club.’

‘During daylight?’

‘At night, after waking up.’

‘Baskerville?’

‘No. That facility has had its focus… adjusted. The staff are monitored more closely.’

‘What have your hallucinations involved?’

Mycroft looks away. It seems so ridiculous really. ‘A figure with long glittering nails beside my bed. Twice on the bed. I imagined I heard it breathing and touched it’s wrist.’

‘Then what?’

‘It looked at me and vanished.’

Sherlock sits back and stares at him for a long moment. ‘You’re overreacting. Changes to your sleep cycle combined with hypnagogic and hypnopompic hallucinations.’ He cracks a laugh. ‘The psychiatrist was right. Stress induced over-reaction. Stop trying to out-think everybody, brother mine.’

Mycroft looks at him. He knows his own mind, his own body. This doesn’t seem usual to him. On the other hand, he’s been watching and half waiting for his mind to crack. An over-reaction isn’t out of the question.

Sherlock watches him take this in. ‘Don’t worry, if you do begin to crack I’ll make sure to point it out.’

Mycroft nods and makes to stand. Sherlock’s next words stop him. ‘Have you considered our conversation about goldfish? Hallucinating someone in bed with you. Maybe you’re lonely.’ 

Mycroft sneers. ‘Don’t confuse me with you.’ 

Sherlock leans forward, steepling his fingers. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ 

Mycroft stands, ignoring him. ‘Seeing as I now have two people convinced I need to de-stress I shall do so by ending this pleasant interlude. Good day brother mine.’

*

Mycroft spends the rest of the day soothing ruffled feathers from his absence in the morning. He brings Anthea her favourite cheesecake as a silent apology for the difficulty he caused. He works well into the night in an attempt to drown out the voice that insists the hallucinations and lack of nightmares are more than just stress based. He naps in his office and wakes every half hour, but he doesn’t see anything and never drifts deep enough to dream.

The next day he squeezes meetings in around meetings and ends up with a tension headache from one particularly recalcitrant party. So much for stress reduction.

He doesn’t get back to his house until gone ten. His lovely, big, quiet, empty house. He snorts as he thinks of Sherlock’s comment. He’s not lonely. He likes having his space and privacy. He crawls into bed and finds himself almost hoping the nightmares will be back. If they are, it’s just stress. If they are he’s not losing his mind. 

It takes him a long time to drop off.

*

_He’s in the warehouse. He can see the mounds of rubbish and the scavenged objects held dear to the inhabitants piled along the walls. The people cluster along the walls too, some on mattresses gathered from god-knows-where, some slumped on the concrete. The moon, shining through the holes in the roof, illuminates the scene and adds a stark beauty where none exists. None of the inhabitants stir as he picks his way though, umbrella tapping when it hits concrete. He knows where he’ll find the one he’s looking for. At the back, by the door. The door, with it’s rusted hinges that scream when disturbed. His steps quicken as he nears his destination. He can just make out the slumped shape, moonlight highlighting the curls and hiding the dirt._

_Sherlock’s eyes are half open, his chest still. The shadows hide the needle still in his arm, but Mycroft knows it’s there. He crouches down beside Sherlock, touches his cheek, but life fled hours ago._

_The door rocks. The hinges shriek as it swings slowly open. Beyond, a flickering electric light catches on the shiny shoes and pool of blood. Helpless to resist the call Mycroft walks through the door._

_It’s Paulson. Paulson, who kept his shoes shined as though he were still in the army, called Mycroft ‘Sir’ as though it meant ‘mate’. Beyond him Burton, hair over her face but not disguising the bullet wound in her throat. Beside her Suliman, holding his hand out to Burton even in death, partners to the end. And one more body._

_The curls, so like Sherlock’s. Eyes open, chest moving in fits and starts despite the bloody mess of her abdomen, Eurus gazes up at him dispassionately._

_The footsteps approach before she speaks. He listens, waiting, waiting…_

_Step._

_Step._

_Step._

_Tap._

_The sound of an umbrella tip on concrete. He knows what he’ll see when he turns. Nothing can stop him from doing so, no matter how much he clenches his muscles in resistance._

_Eurus’ voice beside him. ‘Hello brother. Won’t you come and play?’ Polite, cool and bubbling with madness below. And he knows what comes next._

_‘What shall we play, little sister?’ His voice. Not from his mouth, his throat, but his voice none the less._

_‘Sherlock’s playing dead.’ The pout of a sibling._

_‘Don’t worry little sister. I’ll help. You can play with Sherlock too.’_

_He turns round fully, sees the oxfords, the grey-green trousers, the umbrella in one hand and the gun in the other. As his eyes lift towards the face, the details of the shirt-front and waistcoat begin to blur. The room around begins to fade. As the figure lifts the gun the light evens out to a dull grey mist which covers everything and surrounds him, cocooning him away from the images in front of him and lifting him into a peaceful sleep..._

Which doesn’t last more than a few minutes before the sensation of fluttering around his head wakes him. He’s unable to stop the hitch in his breathing as his mind engages and the fluttering stops. Without a sound the bed rises slightly, as though someone got up without disturbing anything else in the room. 

Mycroft’s eyes snap open. The duvet beside him is crumpled in the shape of a body and warm when he touches it. Mycroft forces himself to sit up. Sherlock’s parting words ring in his head.

‘I know you’re there. You might as well come out.’

Nothing. The room remains still and empty. Mycroft feels suddenly extremely foolish, sitting in bed looking for monsters like a frightened child. 

He draws his knees up and folds his arms on top, resting his head on his arms as he does. He can’t help but give a short laugh. This must be how it begins for him. 

‘I’m losing my mind.’ Though he tries to keep his voice factual, he can’t help the tremor that creeps in. He lifts his head and thumps it back down onto his crossed arms.

‘You’re not losing your mind.’

Mycroft’s head snaps up at the quiet words. He fumbles for the lamp beside his bed and switches it on. Light gently floods the room. 

There’s a man sitting on the end of his bed. Silver hair, properly silver, the light shifting and changing across it with every movement he makes. He’s wearing a jumper and jeans and his eyes are dark in the low light. Mycroft can’t tell if they’re brown or blue or black.

‘You’re not losing your mind, I promise.’

Mycroft hears himself snort. ‘Oh that’s good. My hallucination is telling me I’m not losing my mind. Fantastic. That’s very convincing.’ 

‘I’m not a hallucination. I’m real and I promise if you were losing your mind I’d be able to taste it.’

Mycroft controls himself in time to avoid gaping at the man. ‘You could taste it? Oh well then, if my hallucination says it doesn’t taste like I’m losing my mind it’s all fine then.

‘I’m not a hallucination.’ The man sounds worried. ‘Here, see?’ He puts his hand on Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft can feel warmth and pressure. He shakes his head.

‘I’ve already had auditory, tactile and visual hallucinations this week. Sorry, but nothing short of independent corroboration will convince me.’

For a second the man looks away. ‘Um, yeah if you’re talking about the person you grabbed the other night, that was me too.’

Mycroft takes refuge in sarcasm. ‘Well I must say I like what you’ve done with your nails. And the habit of melting into thin air is very convincing for someone who claims not to be a hallucination.’

The man scowls. ‘Right, you want independent corroboration before you’ll believe me? Fine, you’ll get it.’ He moves to stand.

‘How?’ Mycroft asks disbelievingly. 

‘I saw that lot in here the other day checking the cameras. I’ll go for a wander round the front and you can get someone to check in the morning.’

Mycroft is suddenly exhausted. ‘Fine, do what you wish. I still don’t believe you.’ He dismisses the man and lies back down, wrapping the duvet round him and switching off the light. He closes his eyes determinedly, ignoring the man’s huff of breath and muttering. It stops after a minute and then a chime comes from the motion detector at the front of the house. For the next five minutes it chimes on and off. This must be part of the hallucination too so there’s no need to call anyone.

This thought it driven from his head by his phone ringing. It’s Anthea. 

‘Sir, there is a man wandering back and forth in front of your house. Would you like me to have him removed?’

Interesting, Mycroft thinks bleakly. His hallucination is expanding. ‘Ignore it,’ he says, as much to himself as to hallucination-Anthea. ‘He’ll go away.’ He puts the phone down, lies back and entirely fails to go to sleep.

*

When he gets in to his office the next morning, there are stills from the cameras in front of his house on his desk. He calls Anthea in.

‘Sir, these are the photos of the man in front of your house last night. As you instructed, I didn’t have him removed, but I monitored him using the CCTV and shortly after leaving your house he dropped off the map entirely. I still have not been able to find how he evaded surveillance.’ There is a faint chagrined note to her voice.

Mycroft sits and thinks. How likely is it that a hallucination would last this long, be this detailed and involve him hallucinating so many people accepting his delusion?

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Or in this case when you have eliminated the improbable, whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth._

_Right then._

‘Forget about it Anthea, it’s of no consequence. There was probably a minor glitch in the network. Have you got the Marmoset report?’

Anthea gives him her patented incredulous look number four, the one with a hint of concern in it. ‘Sir, pardon me for asking, but is everything alright?’ She pauses then continues delicately, ‘You haven’t been quite yourself these last few days.’

Well, that’s promising. If Anthea’s noticed aberrations in his behaviour and is willing to call him out on it that makes it more likely that she’ll take action to remove him from his position if he starts to act problematically.

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. Though that is unlikely to remain the case if Marmoset does not go well. Have you the latest updates?’

Anthea takes a long look at him then turns on her heel. ‘I shall bring you the file and the updates immediately Sir.’ She walk outs out and a moment later brings him the requested items. It’s not until later that Mycroft realises the surveillance photos of the man have vanished from his desk.

*

There is a diplomatic dinner to attend that evening, and between the speeches and the lavish and over-many courses he doesn’t make it back until near midnight. Honestly, with the amount of food served at these dinners and the expectation that guests will eat at least some of everything it’s no wonder Sherlock goes on about his weight. With his erratic schedule it’s difficult to fit in regular exercise but he does his best. 

He makes his way up the stairs, undoing his bow-tie and stripping off his dinner jacket as he does. It’s not escaped his mind that there was inexplicably a man in his bedroom last night and that the man might be there again. And that there was no logical explanation for his arrival, so suddenly and with no disturbance of his security system. 

He left his gun in his bedroom this morning, which may have been an oversight but he did assume the man was a hallucination. There’s another gun in the safe in his office which he leaves where it is, and a knife in the upstairs hall table which he brings with him. If the man who can materialise in his bedroom isn’t friendly, he doesn’t want to be unprepared.

It’s a distinct anticlimax when he opens the door to find the room empty. There’s no sign anyone’s entered since he left this morning, no dent in the bed covers, no rearrangement of the dressing gown on the chair in the corner. ‘Hello?’ Mycroft calls, feeling uncertain. There’s a long moment where nothing happens and Mycroft stands there feeling increasingly apprehensive and ridiculous despite his best efforts, and then between one blink and the next the man is in front of him. 

He looks exactly the same as the night before, though Mycroft can make out the details of his appearance much more clearly in the glow from the overhead light.

His hair really truly is silver, shining with a gleam like high polished metal. He’s wearing a different jumper from the night before, this one red while the last was blue. His eyes are brown. His expression is disgruntled.

‘Took you long enough.’

Mycroft feels himself draw up in affronted dignity. ‘I do apologise, but not all of us can manifest willy-nilly into people’s bedrooms. Some of us have other obligations to honour.’

For some reason this makes the man crack a wide grin. ‘Alright mate, fair enough. So you convinced yet?’ The accent is possibly the most bizarre thing about him, being as it is pure working class London. 

Mycroft nods. ‘Reluctantly yes. It would almost be easier if you were a hallucination.’

The man looks surprised. ‘How’s that then? You though you were losing your mind before and now you know you’re not.’

Mycroft barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. ‘Before I only had to worry about therapy, medication and possibly a stay in a secure hospital as the worst case scenario. Now I have to deal with the security nightmare of a man who can apparently gain access to my house whenever he chooses.’

‘Greg.’

The non sequitur momentarily throws Mycroft completely. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Greg. ‘S my name.’

Mycroft looks at him for a long moment. The man – Greg – looks back. Mycroft chooses to make the assumption that, whomever or whatever this man is, his body language likely doesn’t differ much from that of someone Mycroft would meet on the street. He seems entirely friendly, his posture open and his face holding no trace of subterfuge. Based on this Mycroft decides to extend a small amount of trust and see where it takes him.

‘Mycroft.’ He hold his hand out to shake. Greg steps forward to take it with no hesitation.

‘Nice to meet you, Mycroft.’ They shake hands and step back. There’s a pause. Mycroft decides to go for it.

‘I don’t mean to offend you, but I would quite like an explanation of how you got in, what you are doing here and who and what you are.’

Greg’s face drops. ‘Right, guess that makes sense. In that order?’

Mycroft shrugs. ‘In whatever order pleases you, I’ve no real preference.’

Greg nods. ‘Can we at least sit down?’

Mycroft feels a fleeting brush of embarrassment at being a poor host. Mummy would be horrified. ‘Certainly we can. Would you like to come through to the sitting room?’ He leads Greg from the bedroom, down the stairs to the first floor sitting room. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

Greg looks momentarily disconcerted. ‘Um, I don’t really know. What do you drink?’

Mycroft blinks and considers. Tea would probably be the wisest option. Greg nods uncertainly at the suggestion and Mycroft leaves to make a pot. He pulls the security feeds for the sitting room up on his phone as he does. Greg is examining the chess set, picking the pieces up to look at then putting them down in different positions. From the total disregard to how the pieces should move Mycroft takes it that Greg doesn’t know the rules of the game.

When he comes back into the room bearing a tray with teapot, cups, milk and sugar, Greg is looking at the Hi-fi system discretely tucked into a cabinet. He joins Mycroft at the small table as he sits. The cup Mycroft hands him is taken readily enough and Greg seems to find the tea acceptable if his pleased expression at the scent is anything to go by. Mycroft offers him milk but Greg eyes it warily and declines. Greg takes a sip of the tea before Mycroft can suggest waiting until it has cooled a little. The startled expression at his presumably burnt tongue causes Mycroft to hide a smile as he suggests leaving it to cool for a bit. He sets his own cup aside to do the same after adding milk. Greg follows suit then clasps his hands together. ‘Right, who am I, what am I, how I got in and what I’m doing here.’ Mycroft nods wordlessly.

‘Well as I said, I’m Greg, Gregory of Fold Lestrade officially. I’m a Dream-eater, I travelled in, and I’m here cos you keep having nightmares.’

Mycroft presses his lips together. Whilst this technically answers all his questions it really gives him very little information. Greg must see his irritation because he chuckles. ‘More than that, right?’

‘If you please.’

‘What d’you want to know?’

 _Everything._ ‘Let’s start with what a Dream-eater is.’ Greg gives him a tolerant look. 

‘We eat dreams. Nightmares specifically.’

Mycroft is nonplussed. It’s a fairly novel feeling. ‘How can you eat nightmares?’

Greg explains. ‘They’re kind of like a plant. The seeds get stuck to you and then grow by feeding on fear and memory. It looks sort of like a mass of cobweb round someone’s head. We pull it off and eat it.’

Mycroft can’t help a shiver of distaste. Greg looks hurt. ‘It’s not like it’s part of you, it just grows on you. And someone’s got to keep it under control.’

Mycroft’s slipping if he let Greg see his feelings. ‘I apologise, it’s not a concept I’ve thought of before. How do you pull them off?’ 

Greg watches him warily for a moment before he answers. ‘We use our nails.’ He catches Mycroft’s glance towards his fingers. ‘Not these ones. These nails.’ In a blink Greg changes and Mycroft can’t help his start and gasp of surprise. Where before there was a somewhat extraordinary looking man, there’s now an utterly alien looking creature, still dressed in the jeans and jumper of before. The hair is the same but the face has elongated and the eyes are larger, no whites or iris visible, just glittering black pupil. From the way they reflect the light Mycroft thinks they might be made up of thousands of tiny facets.

Greg’s skin has gone from a healthy tan to so pale as to be almost translucent. His mouth is still entirely human looking. He’s holding up his hands for Mycroft’s inspection, showing the glittering five inch nails Mycroft has caught glimpses of before. After a moment Mycroft reaches for them. ‘May I?’

Greg nods. ‘Sure, but be gentle, they’re very sensitive.’ The London accent coming from such a strange looking being is even more surreal.

Mycroft holds Greg’s hand gently, not touching his nails. Close to he can see that they’re made of layered and fragmented sheets, looking much like mica and having a somewhat scaly appearance. The shine reminds Mycroft a little of mother of pearl. 

‘This is how you usually look?’

Greg shakes his head, changing back to his more human look. Mycroft bites back the urge to protest that he wasn’t finished looking. It’s a seamless and instantaneous transition, one second one thing the next second another. ‘We look human enough to pass most of the time, we just look like that to feed.’

Mycroft releases Greg’s hand and pulls back to pick up his tea. Greg follows suit, taking a sip as Mycroft does and making a pleased face at the flavour. Mycroft draws the conversation back on track. ‘How often do you eat?’ 

‘Every night usually. There’s always someone having nightmares. Fold Lestrade looks after London.’

‘Fold Lestrade is your family? Group?’

‘Family I guess would be closest,’ Greg agrees. ‘We mostly have the London area, though it’s not strictly defined. There’s different Folds in other places.’

‘Is everyone in a Fold related?’

Greg shrugs. ‘Not really, we kind of just come and go. If I went up to stay in Cambridge long term I’d be Gregory of Fold Harwell. But I was born in London and a lot of the people in my Fold are cousins of some kind.’

Mycroft nods, thinking of his next question. ‘What do you mean you travelled in?’

‘I mean I wanted to be here and I was. Then I wanted to be somewhere else and I was.’

Some form of teleportation, Mycroft thinks, and almost can’t believe he thought that. This whole thing is bordering on too bizarre to believe. ‘But how does it work?’

Greg shrugs again. ‘Don’t really know. It’s just a thing we can do. Some of us think it’s to do with the way nightmares spread, that we’re moving in relation to people’s minds. I’m not convinced, I’ve travelled to places with no humans before.’

‘So you focus on a place and just… arrive?’

‘Basically, yeah.’ Greg nods. ‘Y’can do it with people too, ‘s how I found you when you weren’t here.’

This brings them to Mycroft’s next question. ‘And why did you follow me to my club?’ Greg looks slightly abashed.

‘Probably shouldn’t have done that, since you nearly spotted me already. You’ve been having nightmares for years, right? I ran across you the other week and I could hardly see you for all the strands round you. So I thought I’d take a couple of days, clear them off you and let you get on with things. Then it took me two nights to make a dent and when I came back the next night to finish most of it had already grown back. It’s been all I can do to keep the worst of it off.’

Mycroft is slightly disturbed by the idea of being surrounded by invisible filaments of nightmares. ‘Where did you see me?’

‘I was over in Baker Street, there’s a bloke there who grows nightmares fairly regularly and you were visiting his flatmate when I left. Gave me a bit of a shock to see you, to be honest. I didn’t think we let anyone get that bad.’

Mycroft considers this. ‘Your Fold is organised as to the suppression of nightmares?’ At Greg’s questioning look he clarifies. ‘You organise things to make sure no one has too many?’

Greg shakes his head. ‘Not really, we tend to just keep an eye out for growth. We’re not organised like that, it’s more opportunistic. Still, I’m surprised no one’s found you before.’

‘I have had periods of time with no nightmares. It’s possible one of your cohort was responsible then.’ Greg’s shaking his head before Mycroft’s finished speaking. He looks a little grim.

‘No, that was probably due to natural dieback from too many growing at once. They tend to poison themselves if there’s too many but that doesn’t stop the growth for long.’

A thought hits Mycroft. ‘When you look at me now, do you just see a clump of nightmares?’

Greg chokes back a laugh. ‘Nah, I’ve got rid of most of them now but you grow them faster than anyone I’ve seen. In a few days if I don’t do anything you’ll probably have grown them all back.’

Interesting as this has been, Mycroft needs to end it. ‘I am well used to dealing with nightmares, and while I appreciate your attempts to curtail them it is unnecessary. It was lovely to meet you but I will manage fine on my own, thank you.’

Greg looks shocked and a little hurt for a moment but he nods and stands up. ‘Fair enough mate, it’s your decision. I will say though that there’s no guarantee that someone else won’t show up.’

‘But you said yourself, nobody found me before. Surely they still won’t now?’

Greg pulls a slight face. ‘Unfortunately for you people we’ve fed from tend to attract the notice of other Dream-eaters. Dunno how it works, but if we’re near someone who’s been cleared before but hasn’t been visited in a while we can tell and we tend to check for new crops.’

Mycroft frowns. ‘Is there any way you could put the word out that I’m to be left alone?’

Greg shakes his head. ‘Sorry, but we’re drifters really. There’s no meeting place to leave messages and even if I did mention it when I saw someone they’re just as likely to come see what’s so important. You’d end up with us popping in and out all night.’

‘Is there any way to prevent you from being able to enter a building?’

Greg looks thoughtful for a moment but then shakes his head again. ‘Can’t think of anything off the top of my head, and I’ve never found anywhere I couldn’t travel. I could ask around but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.’

Mycroft’s frown deepens. ‘I’m not comfortable with the idea of people able to access my house without my knowledge. There’s really nothing you can think of to stop it?’

A sly smile crosses Greg’s face. ‘Well, you could always invite a Dream-eater you know to visit and get rid of any nightmares. You’re much less likely to have any uninvited guests if you keep the nightmares down.’

Mycroft is half amused, half sceptical. It might work, but he doesn’t know Greg at all really and he only has his word that this is the way it works. ‘May I have some time to think over your offer?’ And perhaps do some research of his own.

Greg looks slightly disconcerted. ‘Um, sure. I was sort of teasing, you don’t have to invite me to visit.’

Mycroft hums an acknowledgement. ‘Never the less, it may be a valid option. Would you mind coming back in a week to give me some time to consider it? And for you to consider too, you are under no obligation to keep visiting me.’

They agree to meet up again in a week and Greg vanishes. Mycroft makes his way to bed, making a note on his mental to-do list to make some discrete enquiries into Dream-eaters.

*

Tentative forays into the secure MI5 and MI6 files along with the other databases Mycroft has access to produces no information about Dream-eaters or any mentions of teleportation. Mycroft has to search carefully to avoid throwing up red flags on his behaviour. 

For a man who prides himself on his ability to assemble data from the most minute of sources, there really is nothing for Mycroft to go on here. He’s getting irrelevant search results at every turn. In desperation he eventually turns to google, where he immediately has to set a filter to remove all the Pokemon references. The only thing that is in any way relevant are the legends of the Chinese Baku which apparently eats nightmares, but as Mycroft thinks he would have noticed if Greg had the trunk of an elephant it’s still not terribly helpful.

He dismisses the idea of asking Anthea with barely a moment’s though. He did not fail to notice the upgraded cameras outside his house. Evidently she has not forgotten about Greg.

He forces himself to put his research on a back burner for the moment to focus on his job. He’s still feeling refreshed after a full and uninterrupted night’s sleep. Obviously the nightmares have not grown back to full strength yet.

Mycroft feels he should be slightly worried by how easily he’s accepting the whole situation, but he’s used to the state of the world changing rapidly and to making decisions and coming to conclusions based on little information, so this seems largely usual to him. Only the specifics are different. 

The part of his brain that is constantly running probabilities and scenarios has also had the thought that a person who can move at will with no regards to boarders and possibly distance as well would be very useful to have around.

*

By the following Wednesday when he has arranged to meet Greg, Mycroft has managed to get no further with his research and is exhausted as well. With a mere two weeks of nightmare free sleep his body has thrown out the habits of over forty years. He can retrain himself but it will take time. He almost yawned during a lunchtime conference call with the Japanese Prime Minister. Mycroft has built his reputation on never showing weakness unless strategically sound and he can’t afford flaws in his control.

Sherlock visited on Monday, a nigh on unprecedented move he blamed on John. Mycroft was almost too tired to appreciate it for what it was: younger brother checking on older. It gave him a fleeting moment of affection free from irritation, a rare occurrence with Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t stay long or say much but he seemed vaguely pleased to find Mycroft busy with work and experiencing nightmares again. He made some comments about goldfish which doused the affection and returned the irritation, swirled his coat and left. Mycroft had to stifle the urge to have all the shops near Baker Street mysteriously run out of tea.

He awaits Greg’s arrival in the sitting room with a prepared tea tray, leaving off the sugar bowl this time. He has already planned on learning all he can about Dream-eaters before he decides on Greg’s offer.

Greg departed last week around one and it’s nearing that time when he hears hesitant footsteps on the stairs. Seconds later Greg pokes his head in through the door, stepping fully into the room when he sees Mycroft sitting there.

‘Sorry, wasn’t sure what room you’d be in so I came in upstairs.’

‘It is of no consequence.’ Mycroft gestures to the tea tray. ‘Would you care for some tea?’

Greg nods enthusiastically. ‘Please. It’s good stuff. Never had it before.’ He takes a seat as Mycroft pours. At his last words, Mycroft looks up.

‘Never had it? Really?’ Mycroft previously considered it impossible for anyone from England to have never drunk tea, and whatever else Greg might be, being born and raised in London definitely makes him English in Mycroft’s eyes.

Greg laughs at his surprise. ‘What, you think I’m popping into Starbucks for a quick cuppa?’

Mycroft hadn’t thought about it at all. ‘You’ve never tried tea but you know about Starbucks?’

Greg shoots him a look over the rim of his cup. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen cafes, I’ve even been in them once or twice but I don’t have any money so how can I buy anything?’

‘You don’t have a job then?’ From Mycroft’s admittedly limited understanding of supernatural beings he had rather assumed they lived double lives. Mycroft is fully aware of how often people miss blindingly obvious signs and he doesn’t think it would be a stretch for them to miss the fact that their colleague can teleport and spends his evenings eating nightmares.

Greg gives him a slightly incredulous look. ‘What, you think I’d just rock up and hand in my CV?’ His voice turns mocking. ‘No I don’t have any qualifications or experience. No I don’t have any recommendations either. No, sorry, I don’t have an address or telephone number.’

Mycroft considers this. No address or recommendations, likely no birth certificate or school records either. Invisible both digitally and physically. No close family by the sound of it so no pressure points there either. Can’t be held, can’t have anything withheld. If he’s going to let someone have free access to his house there are worse choices than Greg. ‘I’m sorry, I was making assumptions again. It must be quite tiresome to be explaining all the time. How many people have you told about Dream-eaters before?’ he asks with a studied casual tone. 

Greg looks a little sheepish. ‘Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told. I’ve only ever been seen by a few people and most of them just think it’s a dream. Don’t say anything, vanish and no one thinks twice.’

‘So why did you speak to me?’

Something haunted appears in Greg’s eyes. He puts his cup down on the side table and stares at it, finger tracing the rim. ‘Some people can’t just shrug us off. One guy I used to visit occasionally had a breakdown. I think a few too many of us had shown up and he couldn’t take it.’ He doesn’t elaborate any further. ‘When you thought you were losing your mind I was worried it might happen to you too. Seemed like the better option.’

They both lapse into silence and Greg picks up his cup once more. There are several points Mycroft would like clarification on but he’s not sure how to bring them up. In the end he decides to just go for it. ‘When you saw me at Baker Street I didn’t see you. Why not?’

Greg swallows him mouthful of tea. ‘We can be invisible to people when we want to. Same way as you can’t see nightmares.’

‘But we can see you when you are removing the nightmares.’

Greg agrees. ‘Most of the time you can, but we can hide and feed at the same time.’

Mycroft moves on to his next question. ‘If you don’t have an address, where do you live?’

Greg quirks his mouth slightly. ‘We don’t really live anywhere. We’re out most of the night feeding and then we usually spend most of the day drifting round looking for people with enough nightmares on them.’

‘Do you not sleep?’

Greg snorts. ‘Of course we sleep. But we use empty spaces mostly. Unoccupied hotel rooms, empty offices, that sort of thing. Someone once told me that generations ago we used to build homes in trees, but there aren’t that many trees in central London, and anyway it’s bloody cold most of the time.’ He grins at Mycroft.

‘And where do your clothes come from?’

For the first time Greg looks a little ashamed. ‘Stolen mostly. No money to buy them. Sometimes we can get stuff from the homeless charities but mostly it’s visiting a warehouse at night to get something.’ He flashes a slightly defiant look at Mycroft. ‘We don’t take much and I figure it’s a fair enough trade, a bit of clothing for no nightmares.’ He deflates again. ‘But yeah, it’s the only option really.’

Mycroft decides to move away from that topic. ‘So you mostly wander round all day observing people?’

Greg seems grateful for the change in the conversation. ‘That, yeah, but most public libraries will let you go and read in them without membership, and you can travel into cinemas if that’s your thing. But we can travel pretty much anywhere we can think of. I’ve been all over the place, done loads of stuff, but mostly it’s just little things. There’s nothing like watching the patterns in the wind from the top of a really tall building, or feeling the texture of sunlight through leafs. There’s always something to do.’

 _Must view colour on a different spectrum, and the sensitivity of the nails must carry over to other areas_ comments the part of Mycroft’s brain not consumed with analysing Greg’s answers and the situation at hand.

Silence descends once more and Mycroft picks up his own teacup. He considers, weighing the pros and cons of inviting Greg to visit and remove the nightmares. On the cons side he’s still not comfortable with somebody having free access to his house and he doesn’t have any real hold over Greg to ensure his compliance with Mycroft’s wishes. On the pros side, neither does anyone else and if Greg’s right about him attracting Dream-eaters now, Greg is at least a known quantity. On top of this Mycroft is not unaware of the pleasure of sleeping nightmare free and how much more efficiently he worked the previous week, even counting the time he spent worrying about losing his mind.

Mycroft clears his throat. ‘If you are amenable, I would appreciate it if you would continue to remove the nightmares from me.’

Greg lets out a whoosh of breath. ‘Thank Christ, ‘cos mate, you look like a clump of candyfloss at the moment.’

Mycroft feels an instant of mortification before he suppresses it. ‘I’m glad this meets with your approval. How would you like to go about it?’

Greg thinks for a moment. ‘Normally I’d just stand by the bed and pull it off, but last time you had so much on you I couldn’t do that and I had to lie on the bed too. If that’s OK, I’ll put you to sleep and then get started.’

That’s not what Mycroft imagined. ‘I’m not comfortable with that idea.’

Greg shrugs. ‘I can wait for you to fall asleep on your own if you’d prefer.’

That’s not what Mycroft meant. ‘I would prefer to be awake while you are here if that’s possible.’

Greg looks a little troubled at the thought. ‘I’ve never tried that before, might be a bit off-putting, yeah? But we can have a go if you want.’

Mycroft does want. ‘Would you prefer here or in the bedroom?’

‘Bedroom would probably work better, we can both stretch out there.’ Greg shoots him a wink. Mycroft ignores it and stands. 

‘Very well, shall we adjourn?’

Greg follows him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Mycroft debates getting into his pyjamas but ultimately decides against. He’s already feeling quite unsettled by this situation and he doesn’t think being mostly undressed will help him. He lies down on his usual side of the bed and Greg takes the other. They stare at each other awkwardly for a moment before Greg clears his throat. ‘Right, I’ll just get on with it then, yeah?’

Mycroft nods and the next instant Greg changes. It’s still a very startling transformation but Mycroft manages to control his reaction this time.

It’s more difficult to see where Greg’s eyes are focusing like this, but Mycroft still has the feeling it’s not his face Greg is looking at. Greg brings his hands up to Mycroft’s head and begins pulling at the air, teasing something free though Mycroft cannot see what. After a minute or two he brings one hand to his mouth and takes something off it, mouth closing around nothing before he chews and swallows. 

Mycroft has a moment of disquiet, a deep unease brought on by having an utterly alien being lying in his bed. He almost calls for a halt, sits up, sends Greg away but he pushes the impulse down. It will be better in the long run if he can get used to this.

He looks back at Greg’s face to see a slight flush of pink to the pale skin and a look of suppressed embarrassment. ‘Maybe this would be better if you were facing away?’

Mycroft wants to agree, to roll over and pretend he’s not aware but he shakes his head. ‘No, I would prefer to watch.’

Greg looks as though he’s taking a steadying breath at this, then his shoulders twitch as if he’s trying to straighten them and he carries on picking off the invisible strands with a look of determination.

Mycroft isn’t sure how long this will take but eventually he finds himself relaxing, used to the motions of Greg pulling away an invisible web. It’s peaceful in its way, and if Mycroft wasn’t very aware of having another person in his bed he’d probably drift off. In an effort to distract himself he runs through the details of a few operations being carried out, and it works to the point that when Greg finally says he’s finished it takes Mycroft a second to remember what he’s referring too.

He takes careful stock of himself. He doesn’t feel any different, neither mentally nor physically. If he hadn’t been aware of it happening he wouldn’t have thought anything _had_ happened.  
‘Same time tomorrow?’ Greg asks.

Mycroft quickly scans through his itinerary for the next day. ‘I shouldn’t be too busy tomorrow, so if it’s convenient you could arrive earlier. Eleven pm?’ 

‘Suits me. See you then.’ Greg grins at him, jumps off the bed and vanishes. Mycroft is suddenly exhausted. It’s been a long week with little sleep, and the idea of uninterrupted rest is the most appealing thought he’s had in a long time. He forces himself to get up and get changed before he falls asleep where he is. His final thought as he drifts off is that the experience wasn’t as bad as he initially feared. He can tolerate it.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite a decent amount of sleep by Mycroft’s standards, he is unable to prevent his frustration from leaking though to the team leader of Operation Marmoset after a spectacular balls up of intelligence gathering on the part of the team. The ensuing chaos forces Mycroft to stay much later than planned and it’s not until Greg appears beside his desk that he becomes aware of the time.

Greg looks around his office in interest tempered with surprise. ‘Sorry, when you weren’t home I thought you’d be at your club again.’

Mycroft’s gaze snapped to Greg the moment he materialised but it still takes him a second to compute what Anthea will do if she suddenly finds an unknown man in his office. He’s lucky that he deals with too much sensitive material to have cameras installed in here. 

‘I apologise Gregory, I was unavoidably detained by an operational matter. If it’s convenient I will leave within the next hour and you can come to my house then.’

Greg looks askance at him and Mycroft realises it’s probably due to the use of his full name. Mycroft refuses to apologise. Gregory is a far more distinguished name and Mycroft loathes diminutives after a childhood of ‘Myc’ and ‘Mycie.’ He also feels it more appropriate for someone that even Mycroft acknowledges is very pleasing aesthetically. 

Greg doesn’t say anything about it, focusing instead on the rest of Mycroft’s words. ‘No worries, if you don’t mind I can just wait here until you’re finished.’ Mycroft does mind; even if Greg cannot actually be kept away from confidential files it’s another matter to essentially let him read over Mycroft’s shoulder. He’s trying to think of a polite way to dissuade Greg, but something in his manner must give him away because Greg gives him a knowing grin. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll head out for a bit then meet you back at yours.’

Mycroft is about to thank him and agree when the door opens and Anthea enters.

Mycroft is sure that he’s the only one who would be able to see the startled micro-expression that crosses her face. ‘Sir, I wasn’t aware you had a meeting. I apologise for not being outside to greet you.’ She addresses the last part to Greg whilst telegraphing her suspicion and a query as to whether she should alert security to Mycroft. Mycroft signals back that Greg is harmless and not a concern for security. Both of these things are completely untrue to Mycroft’s mind, but as there is nothing security could do the result is the same.

‘Mr Lestrade is assisting in the monitoring of my brother. He arrived somewhat unexpectedly to update me. However as he is here now I shall attend to Mr Lestrade’s concerns. Could you request a car be brought round and then I believe you should be free for what little of the evening remains.’ 

Anthea hesitates for a fraction of a second and Mycroft sees her gaze rest briefly on Greg’s hair before she nods and leaves the room. Mycroft winces at her retreating back. She’s annoyed and suspicious now and so tomorrow will be a day of badly made tea and too tempting pastries until he apologises and explains. 

Mycroft pushes that aside as tomorrow’s problem, instead switching off his laptop and locking it in the safe before standing and collecting his coat. Greg is still standing in the corner awkwardly and Mycroft motions for him to leave the office before him. They walk through the halls together and out to the waiting car. Once seated and underway Greg makes to speak but Mycroft silences him with a look. All the cars have audio recording as a matter of course. It’s not until they are inside Mycroft’s house that he allows Greg to speak. 

‘Christ. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shown up like that, I didn’t think.’

Mycroft tells himself that it’s not Greg’s fault that he didn’t know Mycroft was working late and therefore it’s also not his fault that Anthea is unhappy about being left out of the loop. 

‘It is hardly your fault and as it is an issue that is likely to arise again, would you object to my giving you a phone in order for me to keep in contact with you regarding our arrangement?’

Greg’s answering grin is delighted. ‘I’ve never had a phone before. That sounds great. Can I call you too?’

Mycroft imagines being repeatedly called in the middle of meetings by someone unused to phone etiquette. That does not sound like a wise idea. ‘I think it would be easier to stick to text messaging.’

He locates an older model phone with a qwerty keypad rather than a touchscreen. The battery is dead and he sets it to charge in the bedroom. ‘Shall we proceed?’ He gestures to the bed.

Greg sits and Mycroft joins him. They lie down and Greg looks at him for a long moment before he begins. Mycroft finds it much easier to relax tonight, his body no longer registering Greg as an immediate threat. 

It doesn’t take as long for Greg to finish this time, and once he has Mycroft gives him a brief tutorial on how to use the phone and makes sure there is a SIM card in it with credit on. Greg departs, still fascinated and poking at the phone.

*

Mycroft know Anthea is very annoyed with him when the first coffee of the day is accompanied by a raspberry and white chocolate muffin. When she leaves he heaves an inaudible sigh and peels the wrapper off the muffin, placing it on the plate along with a few crumbs then opening the bottom draw of his desk and putting the rest of the muffin within. If she thinks she’s tempted him into eating early on she will forgive him more quickly. 

For a moment he imagines how easy it would be if he too lived on a diet of nightmares. Whatever else it does for Greg, it keeps him trim.

The morning begins with an update on the situation with Operation Marmoset, which is still unsatisfactory. Mycroft judges that another conversation with the team leader at this point will do nothing but put the man’s hackles further up and so leaves him to stew for a while.

He’s just reacquainting himself with the upcoming topics for debate in the House of Commons when the first text arrives.

_Hi mycroft hows your day goingv bye_

The next comes seconds later.

_Hi oh sorry I dont know how to do question marksm bye_

_Hi or full stopsm its greg by the waym bye_

With how delighted Greg was by the phone the previous evening, Mycroft really should have expected this.

_Hello Gregory. My day is going well, thank you. To access the special characters on your phone press the key marked alt before pressing the key showing the character you want. MH_

_Hi oh, thanks Mycroft. Glad your day’s going well. I’m in a library, there’s loads of Terry Pratchett here to read. Have you read any of his books? G_

_I have not, I do not get a lot of free time in which to read. MH_

_Oh that’s a shame. What do you read when you do have time? G_

_I read world literature when I have the time. I am sorry Gregory but I have a meeting now. I shall see you this evening. MH_

_Ok Mycroft, speak to you later. G_

Mycroft does not have a meeting for a further forty three minutes but he can’t spend the morning texting constantly. This is a mutually beneficial semi-business arrangement, not a friendship.

*

No further information comes in from Operation Marmoset, allowing Mycroft to actually leave at a decent time on a Friday evening for once. Anthea’s cake warfare has reached the level of chocolate praline brownies and as a result he is very glad to leave the battlefield.

He arrives back in time to cook himself a decent if uninspired dinner of pasta with chicken and broccoli. He sends Greg a text to let him know he’s free but doesn’t receive a reply.

Unwilling to waste his unexpectedly free evening sitting around waiting for someone who may not arrive for hours, he heads to the second sitting room, the one he doesn’t invite guests into, the one with his film collection. Films have long been his preferred way to unwind, the stories easy to get lost in after a long day. He doesn’t indulge every night, but when the chance comes or he has had a particularly trying day he allows himself the luxury.

The opening credits to _The African Queen_ have almost finished when he hears Greg’s voice in the hall. ‘Mycroft?’ Mycroft pauses the film and gets up but the door opens before he can reach it. ‘Found you!’ Greg grins. He’s wearing a hat this time, a knit cap that hides his hair. His eyes take in the room and his face shows his curiosity but he doesn’t comment. He brings his attention back to Mycroft. ‘Sorry I didn’t get here earlier, I was asleep when you texted. You want to do this now so you can get back to your film?’

Mycroft nods. ‘I would imagine you have things to attend to as well.’ 

Greg’s face screws up in a dismissive way. ‘Nah, most people don’t sleep til later, so I was just gonna go and people watch for a bit.’

Mycroft finds himself speaking before he considers it. ‘You are welcome to stay and join me if you would like.’

Greg’s face lights up. ‘Really? I’m not gonna say no to that. What are you watching?’ Mycroft hands him the film case and he reads the description. ‘Sounds great! I’ve not seen this one. Katherine Hepburn’s a good actress.’ 

Mycroft agrees and offers to make tea. He returns to find Greg has removed his hat and is fiddling with his phone. Greg offers him a sheepish grin in response to Mycroft’s questioning look. ‘Sudoku. I’m getting better at it.’ 

Mycroft hums in response. ‘Remember the battery. If it needs charging you’ll need to do it here.’ He offered Greg the charging cable but as Greg pointed out, with no real place to stay it doesn’t really make sense for him to keep it.

Greg rolls his eyes in response. ‘I may not have used a phone before yesterday but I do know the basics, Mycroft. I’ve heard enough people complaining about dead batteries to know to keep an eye out.’

Mycroft nods and sets the tea tray down on a side table. He leaves it to steep and restarts the film, the title card opening onto the screen. As the credits roll by Mycroft nods to Greg’s hat. ‘To detract attention from your hair?’

Greg nods. ‘People find it a bit strange, though some want to know where I get my dye. Hats are easier.’ Mycroft tilts his head to the side in agreement.

‘Do all Dream-eaters have silver hair?’ 

Greg shakes his head. ‘Not til we get older usually. I’m just prematurely silver.’

_A true silver fox_ Mycroft thinks, then banishes the thought. He decides the tea has steeped for long enough and pours them both a cup. Greg takes his with a word of thanks and they both focus on the film.

Mycroft finds Greg a pleasant companion to watch with. He doesn’t insist on speaking and avoids fidgeting. Considering Mycroft grew up watching films with Sherlock, who could not be persuaded to sit still unless there were pirates involved, this comes as a great relief. 

When the film finishes Mycroft turns to Greg. ‘What did you think?’ he asks politely. 

Greg looks thoughtful. ‘It was fun, I enjoyed it more than the book. Bogart’s kind of the same in all of them though, isn’t he?’

Mycroft agrees with him but having someone to debate the point with is enjoyable. ‘Whilst he plays a variety of roles across his films and there is a certain synchronicity to many of his portrayals, he does play different characters. Have you seen _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_?’

Greg shakes his head. ‘No, I’ve not seen that one. They did a films in the park thing a while back and showed a few of his, but not that one. I enjoyed _The Big Sleep_.’

They discuss films for a while and Mycroft finds that Greg has seen a surprising variety and can remember most of them well enough to express his opinions clearly and back up his arguments. There are several holes in Greg’s film catalogue that Mycroft would enjoy showing him another time.

After a bit Greg recalls the reason he’s here by the yawn Mycroft fails to suppress. That he failed to do so is unusual – he must be feeling far more relaxed around Greg than he realised. They head up to Mycroft’s bedroom and despite his best efforts he can’t prevent himself from falling into a light doze as Greg works. By the time he’s finished, Greg has to shake Mycroft to alert him to his departure.

*

Saturday passes with only a brief foray into the office. The team leader for Operation Marmoset is still failing to obtain results. At this rate Mycroft will be forced to remove him and promote his second in command in his place. Greg stops in briefly in the evening but can’t stay long, and Mycroft goes to bed early with the intention of reading. When he returns from the bathroom he finds a book on his bedside table that definitely wasn’t there before. _Going Postal_ the cover reads, and the plastic dust jacket and barcode sticker inside the front cover proclaim it to be from a public library. Shoreditch, to be precise. 

Greg. Mycroft debates leaving it where it is and returning to his book of Tibetan short stories, but in the end he picks it up. It’s a pleasant sensation, realising someone wants to share something with him that they have enjoyed.

*

Unfortunately, due to a Minister who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut Mycroft spends Sunday dealing with hysterical phone calls that in no way reflect the magnitude of the situation. Or rather its lack of magnitude. Mycroft barely restrains himself from becoming sarcastic, and feels himself dangerously nearing ironic. Some days he really wishes he could emulate Sherlock’s manner of dealing with idiots.

He is not particularly surprised to see a waiting text from Greg when he checks his phone mid-afternoon.

_Hi Mycroft, hope you’ve having a good day. Did you find the book I left you? G_

_My day has been unfortunately consumed with petty bickering and self-aggrandisement. I did find the book, I read the first few chapters last night. MH_

_Well don’t keep me in suspense! What did you think? G_

Mycroft feels a sense of mild pleasure at the thought of a distraction from rounds of ‘he said, she said’ between people who really ought to know better. He sends Greg a brief summary of his thoughts so far and asks after Greg’s plans for the day. Greg tells him he’s meeting up with some friends, other Dream-eaters, just to catch up. Mycroft is about to inquire further when Anthea comes in. Mycroft puts his phone aside and gives her his full attention, slightly alarmed by the tension in her body language. 

‘Has something come in?’

She ignores his query. ‘Sir, I ran a background check on Mr Lestrade and there are no results to be found. He has no official documents under any name, he has not appeared on any databases I can find and unless you give me more to work with I cannot track down any more information. The only images I can find of him are from the cameras around London, outside your house, and the internal security cameras here. Interestingly there is no footage of him entering the building, only of him leaving.’ Her whole demeanour screams _‘Still think it’s of no consequence?’_

Mycroft thinks quickly. ‘I employed him initially to keep an eye on my brother, but he is an expert in bypassing security systems,’ _technically true_ ‘and he manages his digital footprint very carefully.’ _true in the sense that he didn’t even own a phone three days ago._ ‘I thought I might take the opportunity to test the security measures we have.’ He allows his voice to sharpen slightly and quells the guilt at his next words. ‘Evidently there needs to be some adjustments made.’ It’s not Anthea’s fault that she can’t find Greg but he can’t exactly tell her to forget about it. It’s her job to co-ordinate security and she will not take kindly to the idea of people who can move in and out at will.

Anthea gives him a hard look but nods sharply and walks out. 

Mycroft gives a brief thought to texting Greg again but the enthusiasm has drained out of him. 

*

Greg arrives early that evening in response to Mycroft’s text inviting him to another film, full of stories of his day with his friends. They found an outdoor concert to visit and Mycroft listens with half an ear as Greg tells him about it. Greg notices his distraction quickly.

‘Mycroft? Is something wrong?’

Mycroft brings his mind back. ‘Apologies Gregory. I was contemplating the possibility of telling Anthea about our arrangement.’

Greg looks uncertain. ‘I’m not sure how I’d feel about that. It’s one thing for you to know but the more people who know the more likely it is that there’ll be problems. Dream-eaters have managed well to this point by not drawing attention to ourselves and I don’t think it’s a good idea to change that.’

‘I understand your reservations but if we continue to associate then Anthea is going to become more suspicious and possibly involve other people in her attempts to find you. She is as accustomed as I to the keeping of secrets and I don’t believe she would intentionally betray your or your brethren.’ _As long as I explain things judiciously._

Greg’s mouth scrunches up. ‘Yeah, well, unintentional betrayal would have the same result.’ 

Mycroft decides to leave the topic for now. ‘Please consider it at least.’

Greg sighs and nods. ‘Fine, but no promises.’ He visibly sets it aside and forces a smile. ‘So what are we watching?’

‘You mentioned the other day you had not seen any adaptations of Graham Greene novels. I thought we might try _Our Man in Havana_.’

Greg smiles for real this time. ‘Brilliant! The book was good, I hope the film lives up to it.’

Mycroft makes the ritual tea and carries the tray through to the sitting room where Greg has found the film. They sit together on the chesterfield in front of the screen and it hits Mycroft suddenly what he’s done. He’s voluntarily invited someone into his house to share in a treasured pastime, with no ulterior motive and without even thinking about it. There’s relaxed, then there’s this. 

Mycroft fails to follow the first scenes of the film as he contemplates this development. Not only has he invited Greg into his home outside of their arrangement, he has had semi-regular contact with him during the day even when the time could be spent more productively. 

Mycroft has attempted to cultivate friendships in the past. During his time at university and his early years in the secret service he had regularly initiated contact with people and joined them in social settings. Partly to increase his understanding of social interaction but also out of a genuine desire to ‘make friends’. It was not something he had continued past then. The self-absorption of most people, the petty rivalries and juvenile interests had rapidly grown tedious beyond belief. Before long Mycroft simple couldn’t force himself to feign enjoyment and had allowed himself to return to his preferred solitary pursuits. Greg does not engender this reaction in him.

He has already acknowledged that Greg is superficially attractive, but he’s not the first person Mycroft has viewed that way. This is more than that, Mycroft realises. He genuinely enjoys Greg’s company, his undemanding presence and opinions that have nothing to to with flattering or finagling Mycroft. 

There’s no hidden agenda here and Mycroft resolves to enjoy the novel sensation of having a – well, the closest description would be ‘friend,’ he supposes. The two of them are not Sherlock and Dr Watson but Mycroft could imagine a more sedate and platonic version of that relationship forming between them.

This may be jumping the gun a little, Mycroft thinks. At the moment they are friendly acquaintances who have begun spending time together for mutual enjoyment. Let it be that for the moment. For all he knows, prolonged exposure to Greg may render him as stultifying as the majority of the human race is to Mycroft. 

He’s brought back to himself by the sound of Greg’s laughter. He looks over to catch Greg glancing at him, grinning widely at the story. Mycroft automatically sends a smile back to him and lets himself get caught up in the drama on screen.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day begins early with Operation Marmoset reaching an unexpectedly sudden crisis. Mycroft spends two hours co-ordinating the ground team in an attempt to mitigate the damage then spends a further hour analysing all the data he can gather on the topography, looking for possible extraction routes. 

A plan is beginning to come together when word reaches him that the safe house has been breached and the operatives have had to evacuate. 

The next five hours are spend guiding the team to an extraction point, fending off calls from irate MI6 officers who want to know what went wrong, and attempting to mitigate the diplomatic fall out from the team being discovered in a place that, politically, they certainly should not be. 

When the team finally makes the extraction point they have most of the information they were sent to gather, but are missing three members. Mycroft’s heart sinks at the news. Going in, the agents knew that capture meant complete denial by MI6, being branded as rogue and left to fend for themselves. For their own sakes, Mycroft hopes the missing agents died in the escape. 

The rest of the day is a nightmare of briefings, debriefings, situation updates, explanations and justifications. The team lead who’s leadership was so catastrophically flawed had been a nepotistic appointment, and the fall out from his failure to make the extraction point will be dogging Mycroft’s heels when dealing with a certain party for the rest of their working relationship. 

The second in command, a woman with a much greater intelligence gathering pedigree and Mycroft’s preferred choice for team lead, did make it out alive, and Mycroft heartily wishes he had gone with his instinct to put her in charge once in the field. The decision not to will be haunting Mycroft’s thoughts for a long while yet. 

Her account of the last few hours leaves Mycroft with an acute sense of failure at his inability to see all the factors and predict this outcome. His only consolation is that the intelligence gathered is enough to move against several groups with unfriendly intentions, and to aid in the re-negotiation of an agreement Mycroft had had severe concerns over.

He makes it home at a reasonable hour that feels like an unreasonable one. He’s exhausted mentally and physically but he can’t switch his brain off, observations, alternatives and regrets whirling round too fast to keep up with. He wishes he could live up to his moniker of Iceman, freeze out all emotions and leave himself as pure analytical logic. That way he could accept the situation and move on, not linger and tear himself to pieces over it.

The idea of food is unappealing but he forces himself to eat. He gives thought to not calling Greg, to allowing the nightmares to come and accepting them as his due, but having to face tomorrow with no sleep and no end in sight to the uproar the day has caused would be too much to bear.

He texts Greg, who arrives with only a slight delay. Greg takes one look at him and frowns. ‘Bloody hell Mycroft, you look terrible! What happened?’

Mycroft can’t bring himself to lie. ‘A situation at work went badly wrong. Not all of the people involved made it out. I could have averted it if I made some adjustments, but I failed to do so and the result was nearly catastrophic. I can’t help but think that if I had just -’ 

Greg’s hand on his shoulder cuts him off. ‘Mycroft, you couldn’t have known. If you did know you would have done something about it, but you’re not omniscient.’

Intellectually Mycroft knows this, but emotionally he’s not ready to hear it. He tells Greg as much and Greg’s fingers tighten briefly in sympathy. ‘Tell you what, lets get you to bed with a cup of tea and you can relax a bit, see if we can get you ready to sleep.’

For a brief moment Mycroft contemplates resenting the soft way Greg speaks to him, but the effort is too much. _And,_ a small, ignored voice comments, _it’s quite nice to have someone look after you for once._

Greg leads the way to Mycroft’s bedroom then leaves Mycroft to change into his pyjamas whilst he goes to make tea. Sitting in bed with the lights low and a cup of tea in his hand, Mycroft feels as though all the energy has drained out of him. He has nothing left to keep up his shields and he can’t prevent two tears from escaping to roll down his face. He closes his aching eyes for a moment and more tears spill free when he opens them again.

Sitting next to him on the bed with his own cup of tea, Greg shows none of the natural mortification of an Englishman confronted by tears. He brings his hand to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder and moves it in gentle, comforting circles, bringing it slowly down to rest on Mycroft’s back. Mycroft lets his head drop forward and doesn’t try to stop the tears falling. He’s never managed to look particularly pleasant whilst crying and he knows his face will be going blotchy and his eyes swelling. He can’t bring himself to care. 

Eventually the tears begin to slow. Greg reaches his unoccupied hand out to pluck a tissue from the box on the night stand and hands it to Mycroft. His other hand is still busy rubbing up and down Mycroft’s back. Taking comfort in another person is a strange sensation, but one Mycroft is pathetically grateful for. He sits in silence beside Greg, drinking in tea and companionship in equal measure. 

The hour grows late, and all Mycroft can think of is sleep. The idea of sending Greg away, of being alone with his thoughts once more is intolerable. He can’t bear thinking of how lonely it will be to lie here in the dark, waiting for sleep that is unlikely to arrive. But Greg has taken care of him tonight, has provided comfort. Surely he would not refuse one last thing? 

Finally Mycroft gathers the courage to ask. ‘Gregory...’ He doesn’t know how to phrase this. It’s an awkward thing for him to voice, though given his actions in the last hour not the most awkward thing to happen tonight. ‘Would you stay here. Until I fall asleep?’ He forces himself to watch Greg’s face as the words register.

Greg’s eyes soften. ‘’Course Mycroft. I’ll stay, don’t worry.’ He pauses. ‘If you want, I could put you to sleep. No dreams, promise.’

A wave of relief hits Mycroft. ‘That would be most welcome, thank you.’ Greg smiles in response and his face changes, eyes widening and beginning to shine. One hand, complete with glittering nails come up to tentatively cup his face as Greg leans forward and blows a gentle stream of cool, tea-scented air into his eyes. Immediately Mycroft feels them begin to slip closed, sleep rolling over him like fog. Hands, nails back to ordinary, help him to lie down and guide him under the duvet. His last thought before he succumbs is of Greg’s kindness towards him. 

There has not been a lot of kindness in his life up to now.

*

In the light of day Mycroft refuses to analyse his actions of the previous evening. Letting his guard down in front of Greg felt natural at the time, but now Mycroft can’t help but be surprised at this. He’s not one to trust easily, and his friendship with Greg is already an extremely unexpected development. That he would feel comfortable enough to cry in front of Greg, something that at age four he stopped doing in front of his parents, is close to miraculous.

The day is eaten up with meetings and meetings and more meetings related to Operation Marmoset. Mycroft arrives home in the evening less emotionally drained than the previous day but just as mentally exhausted. For a brief moment he feels reluctant to face Greg but dismisses the thought as unworthy. Greg has done nothing to deserve his unease and he showed nothing but compassion for Mycroft last night.

Greg arrives seconds after his text. He knows Greg texted him several times during the day to check on him, but there was too much to be done for Mycroft to have any time to respond. He refuses to feel guilty for the slight stretching of the truth.

‘Mycroft.’ Greg sounds relived. ‘How are you?’

Once more, Mycroft suppresses his guilt. Greg sounds worried underneath the relief. ‘I am quite well Gregory. I apologise for not responding to your texts today, I was unavoidably busy.’

‘’S alright. You doing OK today?’

‘Much better, thank you. I appreciate the kindness you did me last night. I felt much more prepared to face today as a result.’ As awkward as it is for Mycroft to say these words, the result is worth it. 

Greg’s face softens and lights up and he takes a couple of steps towards Mycroft, seemingly without realising. ‘You’re welcome, I’m glad I could help. Anytime, yeah?’

Mycroft nods. ‘I wondered if you would like to watch something tonight.’ Greg is always interested in seeing something new and Mycroft is willing to leverage his interest in order to have company tonight.

Greg gives him a fond look and for a paranoid moment Mycroft imagines Greg knows why he’s offered this. However, Greg doesn’t say anything about it so Mycroft pushes the thought aside. ‘Yeah, go on then. What did you have in mind?’ Greg’s tone matches his fond look.

‘I thought you might choose. So far we have mostly watched things I have suggested and I wondered if there was anything you might particularly wish to see.’

Greg grins at him. ‘Alright then. Have you eaten?’ 

Mycroft takes a second to think of the answer to that question. He had lunch, certainly, a hasty sandwich between two meetings, but nothing beyond that. He must take too long to answer because Greg breaks into his thoughts. ‘How about you go make yourself something to eat while I find something to watch, and you can eat in front of the TV for once.’

The thought is an alien one to Mycroft but there is an illicit appeal to it. Growing up, meals were at the dining table, never elsewhere, and Mycroft carried this over to his adult life. Allowing himself to eat in the sitting room whilst watching TV is unheard of. 

And with Greg there too, a very attractive idea.

‘Very well then. Would you care for some tea as well?’

‘Please,’ Greg agrees then wanders off towards the second sitting room. When Mycroft arrives shortly after, bearing a tray with scrambled eggs on toast for one and tea for two, he finds the selection menu for season two of _Blackadder_ on the screen.

Ten minutes later, full of eggs, toast and tea and watching Greg laugh at Rowan Atkinson, Mycroft cannot think of a more enjoyable way to end a day.

*

That evening sets the tone for the next week. Greg arrives in response to Mycroft’s text to say he’s home and they chat while Mycroft makes dinner, then sit and watch something whilst Mycroft eats. They alternate nights now as to who’s turn it is to chose what they watch. Thursday night Mycroft is called away partway through for an emergency meeting and Saturday he is required to attend a ministerial gala, but other than that the pattern holds true. 

Mycroft is spending far more time watching films than he did before Greg arrived. Sharing his ritual with someone and having it as a joint interest is more enjoyable than he expected. He and Greg hold differing views on a number of films, and the back and forth of the debate provides fodder for many conversations.

Mycroft exchanges several texts per day with Greg, though Greg usually messages first. He finds he very much enjoys having someone to break up the mundanities of the day, not something he’s ever considered before. It makes the long periods of boredom and dealing with other people’s incompetence slightly less excruciating. 

Mycroft can see Anthea getting more and more frustrated by her inability to track Greg’s movements. On Friday whilst watching more _Blackadder_ Mycroft once more brings up the possibility of telling her the truth. 

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ Greg admits. ‘And I’m still not sure.’ He sighs. ‘If it would make your life easier, and you promise she won’t go telling people then I suppose it’s OK. But no one else, OK, not without discussing it first.’

It’s all very well not telling anyone you exist for safety’s sake, Mycroft thinks the next day as he watches Anthea supervise the instillation of heat sensors around his house, but when you actually do have to tell someone it makes the conversation very difficult to broach. 

It’s early evening on the following Wednesday and Mycroft is still trying to think of a way to tell Anthea without sounding disturbed when he receives the text.

_You home_

Mycroft surreptitiously replies, trying not to draw Anthea’s attention.

_Yes but I’m afraid now is not a suitable time for you to drop round. MH_

_emergency_

Before Mycroft can text back to explain Anthea’s presence, Greg appears in the middle of the room and immediately drops to the floor.

Anthea gapes in surprise but her shock doesn’t prevent her from immediately drawing her gun and training it on Greg. Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. ‘Gregory, I know I’ve been having difficulty finding a way to tell Anthea but this was _not_ how I intended.’

There’s no response from Greg. Mycroft frowns and gets up from his chair, motioning Anthea silent as she lets out a protesting ‘Sir!’ She stays quiet but moves to the left to keep Greg in her sights without risking Mycroft being in the line of fire.

He walks over to Greg, worried by the lack of movement. He’s never seen Greg collapse like this after travelling. He automatically catalogues the dark patch on Greg’s red jumper but it takes a second before the meaning hits.

He falls to his knees beside Greg, pulling at the jumper to reach the skin beneath. ‘Call a medic!’ he snaps, cutting off Anthea’s protesting noise. She reaches for her blackberry one handed and dials unquestioningly, though her gun is still pointed unwaveringly at Greg.

The skin under the jumper shows a long cut reaching from the right edge of Greg’s abdomen and up over his ribs. It doesn’t seems to be as terrible as Mycroft feared at first glance, but it’s still leaking an alarming amount of blood. Mycroft has a moment where he wonders helplessly if a human doctor can do anything for a Dream-eater, then he pushes the thought out of his head. Surely at this point any medical attention is better than remaining as is.

He forces himself not to give in to the panic beginning to build as Greg remains still and silent save for his breathing. He strips off his suit jacket and folds it quickly, pressing it against the cut. At the sudden pressure Greg flinches and moans, but his eyes blink open a second later. He focuses on Mycroft and frowns a little, pain putting lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. 

‘Sorry.’ He whispers, voice too quiet. ‘Couldn’t wait. Didn’t mean to startle you.’ He rolls his head to direct the last words to Anthea, who has hung up the phone and is now focusing all her attention on Greg. At his words her grip on the phone tightens again and she begins to dial another number. Mycroft stops her with a word.

‘No, Anthea. I’ll explain later, but do not call anyone else.’ 

Her mouth tightens but she acquiesces. Mycroft turns back to Greg who’s blinking muzzily but doesn’t show any signs of falling unconscious again. ‘What happened?’ 

‘Some blokes were hassling a homeless guy and when I stepped in one of them pulled a knife. Got me across the side but the other guy ran and they legged it in the other direction. Didn’t want to go to a hospital, too dangerous and too many questions, and I thought you might be home. Wasn’t expecting the company. Sorry.’ His eyes flutter again. Mycroft risks pulling back his suit jacket to check on the wound and is heartened to see the bleeding appears to have slowed, confirming his suspicions that the cut isn’t as bad as initially feared. 

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’ Greg shakes his head. 

‘No, but travelling while injured takes more energy. Just need to rest.’ He flinches again as Mycroft re-applies the pressure. ‘Maybe some stitches too.’ His attempt at humour falls on deaf ears.

‘Do you want me to contact anyone?’ Mycroft can’t imagine how he would go about that but it’s the sort of question you ask. 

Greg shakes his head again. ‘’S just you. I’ll be fine.’ 

Mycroft refuses to think about that. ‘No… personal doctor?’ He hopes Greg gets his meaning.

Even injured and exhausted Greg still manages to give him an amused look. ‘No Mycroft. We can’t really use the NHS. Bad reactions. Nick basic supplies or suffer through it.’ He lapses into silence again. 

Mycroft turns to Anthea. ‘How long before the doctor arrives?’

‘Another five minutes.’ Her voice is clipped and she still hasn’t moved her gun away from Greg.  
Mycroft sighs. ‘Please put that away Anthea. Gregory is not a threat.’ She shows no signs of conceding to his request. ‘Anthea!’ He hardens his voice. She shoots him a look that could almost be called mutinous.

‘Sir, as the head of your personal security I would like to point out that I am more than qualified to decide who and what is or is not a threat. I’m afraid suspicious men who suddenly appear in the middle of your house definitely qualify as threatening, no matter what your opinion may be.’ 

Greg breaks in. ‘She’s right, Mycroft. You definitely thought I was dodgy at first.’ His voice sounds a little stronger now. Mycroft shoots him a glare for being unhelpful.

‘That’s as may be, Gregory, but I have since come to know you and you are in no way a threat. And Anthea,’ he turns to her again, ‘I have been working in the intelligence services since before you were in high school. Please credit me with at least a few self-preservation instincts.’

Anthea still looks mulish but as the front door motion detector goes off followed a few seconds later by the doorbell, she breaks the stand-off by holstering her gun to go and escort the doctor in.

Dr Walters looks at the cut and pronounces it a deep flesh wound, into the subcutaneous fat but not damaging the muscles. Greg gives a weak grin at this and jokes it’s the first time he’s been glad for a bit of extra padding. 

Walters gives him a stern look and tells him he’s lucky it wasn’t worse, and that there’s still the possibility there may be nerve damage. He wants to take Greg in to hospital for a proper check up but Greg refuses, and seeing his anxiety Mycroft swallows his worries and backs him up. 

Disgruntled, Walters goes to give Greg a shot of local anaesthetic but Mycroft stops him. ‘Allergies,’ he explains. He’s not sure what effect human medicines would have on a Dream-eater. Walters looks a little worried.

‘Can he have a topical pain killer?’

Mycroft shoots Greg a questioning look and Greg gives a slight shrug. ‘Lignocaine,’ Mycroft decides. It should be safe enough and having had stitches without any anaesthetic he’s not keen to subject Greg to the same experience. 

Walters looks a little less unhappy. ‘It’s not going to numb you completely, you’ll still feel the needle but it’s better than nothing. You might want something to hold.’

Without thinking, Mycroft finds his hand gripping Greg’s. Greg squeezes it slightly, then his grip tightens as Walters starts to clean the cut. He hisses out a breath and grits his teeth, turning his face to rest against Mycroft’s thigh. 

Walters uses a pad of gauze to absorb a fresh welling of blood while he applies the cream and waits for it to take effect. Greg’s grip loosens a little as this happens but tightens once more as Walters begins the first of the stitches. As he goes on, Greg’s breathing becomes more and more tightly controlled. Mycroft helplessly wishes he could make it easier somehow. All he can do is sit and hold Greg’s hand.

After eleven stitches Walters finishes. He puts a dressing over the cut and tells Greg to keep it dry and clean and leaves him with a prescription for antibiotics, painkillers and more dressings when he departs. 

Mycroft and Anthea help Greg to his feet and between the three of them they manage to make it upstairs without pulling Greg’s stitches and settle him into a guest bedroom. Mycroft fetches him a glass of water from the en-suite and by the time he’s returned Greg is already drifting towards unconsciousness. He escorts Anthea from the room in silence, which lasts until they are back in Mycroft’s home office where Greg initially appeared. Anthea closes the door as Mycroft goes to the cabinet in the corner and pours them both a whiskey. He turns back to find Anthea standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips and eyes flashing furious fire. Her voice is tightly controlled as she speaks. ‘Sir, with all due respect, what the hell was that?’

 

*

Anthea expresses great concern that Greg can follow Mycroft wherever he goes, that he can make himself invisible and that Dream-eaters can gain access to restricted areas at will. She is also sceptical of Greg’s assertion that other Dream-eaters will be attracted to Mycroft. 

Mycroft in turn points out that though this may be new knowledge to them, Dream-eaters have been able to do this for centuries and so far have shown no interest in state secrets or covert assassinations. He goes on to explain that he has searched every database he can access and has found nothing to suggest Dream-eaters are know to anyone other than him, and no data leaks or security breaches that can’t be traced back to human perpetrators. 

Anthea insists this is a security nightmare and informs him of her intention to alert the appropriate authorities.

Mycroft takes a seat in the club chair across from his desk. He indicates that Anthea should take the other, though she stays standing. He sighs. ‘Anthea, anyone you tell will either assume you have been imbibing illegal drugs, are working too hard and are cracking under the strain or that you have a serious psychological problem. Even if they did believe you, what evidence could you offer? The best you have is photographs of someone who does not have a known identity and occasionally cannot be found on security cameras. If you could capture a Dream-eater as proof you could not hold them. They have no affiliation to any government, no real interest in our politics. Should you succeed in bringing them fully into our sphere nothing would be safe again. They would be a weapon with no counteragent, no guarantee of loyalty, no hold on them. What can you offer someone who will never lack for food, for shelter, has no wish for material goods that they cannot satisfy themselves? As it stands they are no threat to us. If we threaten them we have no concept of what could happen next. I do understand your concerns but I fully believe that there is no real threat and nothing we can do at the moment.’

Anthea’s lips have remained tightly pressed though Mycroft’s speech, though she doesn’t disagree with him. ‘I would like permission to question Mr Lestrade. Without you present.’ Her tone makes it clear this is non-optional. 

Mycroft nods. ‘Tomorrow. He’s injured and asleep, leave him for tonight. Come back in the evening and you may talk to him.’ This is equally non-optional. Greg needs rest and Anthea needs time to consider things.

Anthea gives a sharp nod in reply then turns to leave. The click of her heels on the tiled floor of the hall echoes her disapproval all though the house.

Mycroft picks up her untouched whiskey and downs it. Good alcohol should be savoured, but right now he feels the need for something to soften the edges of a hard conversation that may have irreversibly damaged a professional relationship and occasional friendship that has worked impeccably for several years. 

He contemplates pouring himself another but instead goes upstairs to check on Greg. To his surprise he finds him awake. ‘I apologise, I didn’t mean to disturb you. How are you feeling?’

Greg’s expression says it all. ‘Pretty crap. The whole thing stings like fuck and my side feels like it’s on fire.’ The lines on his face are taught with stress and pain. He should really have been given morphine.

Mycroft grimaces. ‘I have a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics for you but I’m not certain how you would react to them. Have you ever taken anything like that before?’

Greg shakes his head unhappily. ‘Best not to risk it. You sometimes hear about Dream-eaters who end up in hospital for whatever reason and they almost all die. We’re not suited for human medicine.’

Mycroft remembers how sick Greg was after he tried a digestive biscuit. He threw up for almost an hour and Mycroft can’t imagine how much worse it would be to have something pumped directly into your body. It would be akin to poison. 

Together, Mycroft and Greg manage to manoeuvre Greg onto his left side enough so that Mycroft can examine the cut. He peels off the dressing and is hearted to see Greg seems to have suffered no ill-effects from the Lignocaine. 

He tells Greg as much. ‘I can have some brought to the house; it might help with the pain. Some antiseptic ointment or the like as well, and more dressings.’ He considers for a moment. ‘We could try some paracetamol but if you cannot tolerate it then throwing up may be the least of our problems.’

Greg appears to be approaching desperation. ‘God, Mycroft, anything at this point.’ He stops for a moment and pulls a pained face. ‘Christ. Look, I know it’s a long shot but do you have any willow bark?’

Mycroft feels a wave of relief. ‘Aspirin. Same active ingredient. You have had willow bark before?’  
Greg nods, looking hopeful beneath the pain. ‘Broke my arm once. We’ve used it for ages. It’s better than nothing.’

Mycroft goes through to his bathroom, locates the aspirin and brings it back to Greg. ‘Here, take one. It’s stronger than willow bark, better to start you off slowly.’ He helps Greg to sip some water to wash the tablet down then settles him back down onto the bed. He informs Greg it should take about half an hour to kick in.

Greg looks grateful. ‘Cheers Mycroft, thanks for this. I’ll be out of your hair soon as.’

Mycroft is shocked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You should stay here until you recover. The more you move around the more likely something will go wrong and you’ll get an infection. There’s plenty of room here and it will be of no inconvenience to me.’

Greg seems both doubtful and pleased. ‘If you’re sure. I wasn’t much looking forward to travelling like this.’

‘That settles it then. You can remain here as my guest until you wish to leave. Besides,’ he can’t help a grimace, ‘Anthea wishes to speak to you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, I heard the shouting. I take it she’s not happy?’ He sounds worried. 

‘Not delighted, no.’

Now Greg looks guilty. ‘I seem to make a habit of showing up where I’m not wanted. I’m really sorry Mycroft. I hope she forgives you. I’ll talk to her whenever you want.’

Mycroft sighs. ‘It’s not your fault, Gregory. The timing was unfortunate but I would have had to tell her eventually, and this way it removes the possibility of her asking if I’ve been partaking in recreational chemicals.’ 

Greg snorts. ‘OK then, if you’re sure.’

Mycroft texts a member of his staff to have the antiseptic wash dropped off, along with more Lignocaine, aspirin and dressings then turns back to Greg. ‘What will you do about food?’ If Greg is going to collapse after travelling anywhere, he’s not going to be able to feed properly and Mycroft can’t imagine bringing people to Greg. Greg’s next words allay his fears.

‘Uh, I should be OK with just you for a couple of days til I’m able to get out and about without falling over. Bit of a give away that, someone crashing onto your bedroom floor.’

Mycroft can hardly contain his relief at this. The thought of Greg collapsing somewhere and Mycroft not knowing or being able to help…

He forces himself to think of something else and realises that he himself hasn’t eaten yet. He doesn’t want to leave Greg though, in case he begins to exhibit side-effects from the aspirin. ‘I should make something for my own dinner.’ He should do, but he doesn’t want to.

Greg seems a little disappointed, and a pained grimace flashes across his face as he shifts position. ‘Right, OK, I’ll let you do that. Have you got a book or something I could read?’

Mycroft highly doubts he would be able to concentrate on a book. He doesn’t want to risk leaving at the moment. A thought hits him. It would be no worse than eating in the sitting room, surely…

He clears his throat. ‘If you would like, I could order something to eat and bring my laptop for us to watch in here?’

Though subdued, Greg’s enthusiasm is genuine. ‘Sounds great. It’s your turn to choose.’

Mycroft calls for take away and heads downstairs for his laptop and a DVD. Greg grins when he sees his selection. ‘ _Blackadder the third._ Perfect.’ Mycroft starts the DVD and Greg focuses on it, his occasional pained breath or twitch the only thing betraying the discomfort he’s in. Mycroft admires his stoicism. He’s not complaining even though he must be considerable discomfort.

He goes downstairs when the doorbell rings to accept the medicines, then once again to pay for the Thai when it arrives. He eats it in the guest room with Greg, who seems more comfortable now the aspirin has had time to work. Mycroft is very thankful there have been no side-effects so far. Once he’s finished he lies down beside Greg and focuses on the goings on on-screen whilst Greg picks at the nightmares around him. Eventually, as they both begin to yawn, Mycroft helps Greg take another pill before heading to his own room where he finally allows himself to think about Greg. Greg, injured. If he hadn’t made it to Mycroft’s, he could have ended up unconscious in hospital, on an IV, with no way for Mycroft to know or help. 

He curls up under the covers. He hasn’t realised up til now how much Greg has come to mean to him. Is this what normal people feel? How do they cope, knowing they might lose someone they care about? He’s been in similar situations with Sherlock, but there he was at least able to track him more or less successfully. With Greg he has no idea.

The whole idea makes him uncomfortable. He is Mycroft Holmes, he does not do sentiment. He is always in control. Greg is a pleasant companion, nothing more. He will not allow himself to care for him any more than he would for a passing acquaintance. 

Anthea was right, he thinks bleakly. Greg is dangerous.

*

The next day Mycroft decides to play with traffic. His resolution not to care lasted until he went to check on Greg in the morning, the way he would with any house guest, and found him pale and exhausted from a night of broken and pain-filled sleep. Helping him to the bathroom, putting on antiseptic and Lignocaine, changing the dressing and helping him back to bed was a sore test to his self control. Greg’s quiet noises of pain, his flinches and exhales whilst he tried to appear upbeat tore at Mycroft’s unprepared heart. He wanted to sooth.

He has never been a soothing person.

He almost fled the house for the Department of Transport, trying to bury himself in the problems of traffic control, minute in comparison to those he usually deals with. Of all the days when he wishes to hide in work this is the day when work refuses to provide. 

Logically, he knows this is the best place for him to be today. Some distance from Anthea to allow her her own thoughts and fact checking, and for him the solving of problems he can navigate with most of his brain resolutely refusing to focus on the job in hand. 

Emotionally he wants the familiarity of the diplomatic tightrope, the problems that force him to concentrate only on them. He is, however, aware that he has to process this change in circumstances, come to some acceptance of his fondness for Greg, as it would appear than he cannot excise it despite his best attempts. Emotions have always taken longer for him to come to terms with. 

He spends an hour tearing through the reports complied in his name in the last month to catch up on the situation at hand. He then drops in on a meeting and spends two hours drafting guidelines for the planned strikes next month. When that meeting ends he returns to his office and compiles data to share at the next meeting. When he finishes it’s 11am and he emerges from his dingy office to mingle with his co-workers. Here he affects the persona of a friendly if somewhat lazy ex-public school boy, enough humour to be liked, nondescript enough to be forgotten. ‘Mike’ is a decent bloke to chat to over Kitkats and coffee whenever he shows up, but not a big enough part of office life to invite to a pub quiz or join the fantasy football. 

‘Mike’ works for another hour before taking his customary long lunch. Mycroft despises this inefficiency and usually heads to his real office for two hours of problem solving. Today, due to his decision to give Anthea time to work things through, he can’t follow this pattern. He debates going for a run but he didn’t bring appropriate attire and his gym is on the other side of the city.

In the back of his mind is the thought that he hasn’t received any texts from Greg today. This is fairly unusual and possibly cause for alarm. He doesn’t feel ready to see Greg again, his thoughts haven’t settled themselves, but he decides to balance the possible confusion generated by more interaction against the possibility of Greg having overdosed on aspirin and being unconscious on the floor suffering seizures. 

As soon as that thought forms he can’t prevent himself from returning to check on him. 

The house is quiet when he walks in. He makes his way quickly up to the guest bedroom where he left Greg, half convinced he’ll find him unconscious and close to death. He finds him awake, but he’s lying in bed not doing anything.

Mycroft feels a frisson of worry. ‘Gregory?’

Greg turns his head to look at him and Mycroft can read misery and discomfort in every feature. ‘Mycroft, hey.’ He makes an obviously forced effort to look cheerful but it doesn’t last more than a few seconds. 

Mycroft moves closer to the bed. ‘I take it the aspirin is not doing much?’

Greg gives a forced laugh that sounds more like a sob. ‘Not much, no. It hasn’t stopped hurting, and I can’t sleep or concentrate on anything.’ His eyes look damp with a combination of frustration, pain and exhaustion. 

Mycroft feels a surge of guilt. He’s been so caught up in his emotional struggles he has failed to adequately provide for Greg. So much for his claims to care. He has avoided Greg and allowed himself to retreat into work to avoid thinking, whilst Greg has been left to fend for himself. ‘I will call Dr Walters and see if there is anything he can do.’ He pulls his phone out to make the call. ‘Why did you not call me?’ 

Greg moves his head restlessly. ‘Forgot I hadn’t charged my phone. I managed to get it from my jeans but the battery’s dead. Didn’t think I could make it to the charger.’

Mycroft feels another wave of guilt. He hadn’t even checked that Greg had his phone to hand. What kind of person is he? The call connects and Mycroft turns his attention to Dr Walters. 

The doctor is horrified to hear that Greg has only had aspirin, and in response to Mycroft’s queries about possibly alternatives and spun tale of a family history of medication allergies he suggests a skin prick test. He promises to come over with the appropriate items as soon as he can. 

Mycroft conveys this to Greg who looks worried and a little hopeful. ‘What’s this involve then?’ 

‘From my understanding, a small amount of liquid containing the possible allergen will be placed on your arm, then the skin beneath will be pricked. If you show signs of skin irritation after around fifteen minutes then you are allergic. I don’t imagine it’s a fool-proof test but if you are going to react unfavourably this will give us an idea.’

Greg’s mouth tightens. ‘Here’s hoping then. Anything you can do to distract me til then?’

Mycroft thinks for a second then begins a long tale of a colleague’s misadventures in attempting to organise appropriate transport for a visiting dignitary. He embroiders the story in places, keeping it mildly amusing through judicious application and exaggeration of the details. Greg follows it enough to ask questions here and there but it’s obvious that the pain is too much of a distraction to focus properly. Mycroft greets the arrival of Dr Walters with no small amount of relief.

He escorts the doctor up to the guest room and hovers behind him as he asks questions Greg can’t answer about family medical history. Mycroft is grateful that the doctor’s history of working with the secret service and all that entails means he knows when not to be too curious. 

Eventually Dr Walters administers the skin prick test using Tramadol in solution. Mycroft’s training and natural inclination towards logic and rationality help him keep from imagining worst-case scenarios as they wait to see if Greg will react. He manages not to snap at Dr Walters as he delivers a gentle lecture about the importance of taking appropriate medication. 

When nothing happens after twenty minutes it’s declared provisionally safe for Greg to take Tramadol. Dr Walters gives him a dose and leaves enough to last for three days, saying he’ll be back then to check Greg’s side and test him for reactions to Ibuprofen, with the intention of changing him to a less potent drug. He leaves and Mycroft accompanies him out. At the door Dr Walters turns to him. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here Mr Holmes, and I know not to ask, but make sure he does take the painkillers. If he doesn’t it’ll put more stress on his body and take longer to heal. You should really have called me before now.’ His look is disappointed.

Mycroft accepts the recrimination as his due. He should have been less self-absorbed and thought more of how Greg was coping. His only excuse is that he’s not used to caring about anybody other than Sherlock, who when miserable makes sure to spread the misery far and wide. An uncomplaining reaction is not an indication that all is well.

When he returns upstairs he can see the drug is already taking effect, the lines of stress on Greg’s face much relaxed and his eyes drifting to half mast. He helps Greg to lie down comfortably and sits with him until he is fully asleep. He then uses all his training to move as silently as possible as he retrieves Greg’s phone charger and plugs it in, resting the phone on the bedside table within easy reach. The pills go beside it, not that Greg will need another for a while, and a glass of water too. He’s reluctant to leave and endure more time in his role of a minor transport official, but for all that ‘Mike’ works only occasionally from the office it will be remarked upon if he doesn’t return, especially as there is another meeting he should attend. He walks soundlessly to the bedroom door, permitting himself one last, lingering look at Greg’s sleeping form before he closes it.

*

His suggestions at the afternoon meeting are peppered with occasional flaws that will lead to minor but ultimately resolvable complications, thus ensuring his work does not stand out from that of his colleagues. ‘Mike’ calls it a day at five and heads for home. Mycroft would normally go to his club or his gym but he can’t erase the worry over Greg. He makes it back home within half an hour, having prompted his driver to push the speed limit.

In the back of his mind is the worry that he’ll return to a scene similar to the one he found at lunchtime. Even with Greg’s phone on the table beside him, he could be in trouble and Mycroft wouldn’t know.

He finds himself hurrying up the stairs up to see Greg without consciously deciding to. The relief he feels when he enters and finds Greg lying in bed reading a book on the Russian revolution is far out of proportion to the likelihood of his imagined scenarios. 

Greg obviously heard his footsteps on the stairs and is waiting for him. ‘Hi Mycroft. Didn’t expect to see you til later. Everything OK?’ Greg sounds a little worried.

‘Perfectly fine. I see you are improved. Painkillers working properly? How are you feeling?’

Greg smiles. ‘Much better. This stuff really works.’ He holds up the book. ‘Hope you don’t mind, I borrowed this from your room. Wasn’t up to going downstairs to raid your bookshelves.’

Mycroft feels guilt trickle in on the heels of a wave of relief. He should have considered that Greg would be bored when he woke. ‘I’m sorry Gregory, I should have considered. Would you like me to bring you a selection from the library?’

Greg looks hopeful. ‘Cheers Mycroft, that would be great. This isn’t really my thing.’ He closes the book. By the looks of it he’d barely begun the second chapter. 

Mycroft gives a small smile. ‘I admit, it is rather heavy going. I shall find something more to your taste.’ They’ve spoken about literature often enough via text that Mycroft has some idea of Greg’s preferred reading choices. ‘Would you like some tea as well?’ The look of gratitude that crosses Greg’s face is almost comical.

‘You’re a life saver Mycroft. That would be lovely, ta.’

Mycroft retreats downstairs, painfully aware of the relief still lingering in his system. Such a small thing, making tea and fetching books, and yet it makes him feel like a better friend. He carefully selects from his bookshelves with the intention of providing entertainment without necessitating too much concentration. In the kitchen he pulls down the tea set Greg most admires. He is self aware enough to know that his actions are at least partially motivated by the guilt of neglecting Greg, but the rest is all due to the damnable fondness.

When he comes back into the room the enthusiasm on Greg’s face sends any idea of gaining back some modicum of distance out of the window. He feels absurdly pleased and proud of accomplishing such a basic task, happy that he’s made Greg happy. 

It’s a ridiculously over the top reaction.

Mortified, he realises he has stopped in the middle of the room and missed Greg speaking while he stood there like an idiot. He represses a blush and clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry Gregory, what was that?’

Greg looks at him curiously. ‘You were miles away then. I just asked what you’d brought me.’

It takes a second for the question to register, and then Mycroft has to look at the tray to check. ‘A selection of le Carré, Kipling and JK Rowling.’

Greg laughs in astonishment. ‘ _You_ have Harry Potter?’

Mycroft feels another burst of pride at managing to surprise Greg. ‘A surprising number of high ranking people are very invested in the series. It seemed prudent to be able to converse on the subject. And it does provide some diversion from dry reports on long flights.’ 

The look Greg shoots him is a little too knowing. ‘And you didn’t enjoy them at all?’ He scoffs. ‘Come off it Mycroft.’

‘I might not have entirely abhorred the series.’ Mycroft refuses to commit to any more than that. Greg lets him off the hook, though Mycroft isn’t foolish enough to believe that will last forever. He makes Greg take two pills with his tea and consents to joining him in a cup. He nips back downstairs to ferret out some oatcakes, cheese and fruit to accompany, it then joins Greg again in the bedroom. ‘Is your phone fully charged?’ he asks on his return.

Greg’s busy investigating the books. ‘Think so. Haven’t checked. Slept most of the afternoon.’ Mycroft checks it and disconnects the charger. 

‘We’ll have to put your clothes in the wash too.’ He makes a mental note to request Anthea send over a selection of jumpers to replace the one that Greg was injured in. That is, if Anthea still works for him after this evening.

Greg just nods. Mycroft looks closer and notices Greg still shows signs of fatigue, stress and pain. He feels a pang of concern and reproof. He really should have noticed this before and insisted Greg take a nap. He’s healing, he needs to rest. 

He says as much to Greg who makes a face. ‘But you came to see me! And you made tea! I can’t nap until I’ve drunk it. And Anthea will be here soon.’ 

Mycroft refuses to dwell on the rapidly approaching arrival of Anthea.

He’s not nervous. That would be ludicrous. 

‘Then we shall sit here and drink our tea like civilised people, and when Anthea has been you will take a nap.’ Mycroft’s voice is not to be argued with and Greg doesn’t even try. 

‘Sounds fair. What time will she be here?’

Mycroft imagines it will be around seven but texts her to confirm. Her text in reply confirms 7.30 and contains the bare minimum of words. Still angry then, which Mycroft feels is fair.

They drink their tea companionably and chat about Mycroft’s day in the Department of Transport. Mycroft makes Greg burst out laughing with a story of the self-importance of a colleague but feels contrite immediately after when Greg grabs his side and goes white. He insists on checking Greg’s stitches, which seem fine, but he takes the opportunity to apply more antiseptic. He wishes he could force Greg to rest but instead distracts him with a comment about Harry Potter that makes Greg crow.

‘Hah! I knew you liked them! Go on then, which is your favourite?’

Mycroft admits that he found the first three books a little simplistic and lacking in detail, understandable given the intended age group, but enjoyed the tone of the forth book. Greg professes a fondness for _The Prisoner of Azkaban_. Greg asks if Mycroft has seen the films, and they spend a happy while debating the relative merits of book versus film.

Mycroft is saved from having to answer Greg’s question about his favourite character by the sound of the motion detector then the doorbell. Anthea has arrived.

She lets herself in without waiting for Mycroft to come down, the doorbell a mere courtesy. She gives Mycroft an unreadable look as she walks into the room and he takes it as his cue to leave. The bedrooms have no surveillance cameras and he considers himself above listening at doors, so after a brief moment of standing helplessly on the landing he pulls himself together and goes to wait in the office. 

He attempts to distract himself from the conversation going on upstairs by logging in to his spare laptop and catching up on the day’s reports, but he can’t stop himself from occasionally pausing to listen for footsteps. Anthea can move as silently as a ghost when she wants to, even in high heels, so there’s no guarantee he would hear her approach. That doesn’t stop him trying.

When she does appear, half an hour later, her footsteps announce her entrance. Mycroft looks up from his laptop and takes in her expression. She looks a little shell-shocked. She walks into the room and takes a seat in one of the club chairs, her posture as close to slumped as Mycroft has ever seen. She lets out a long breath. ‘I think I’ll take that whiskey now.’

Mycroft pours for both of them and joins her in the matching chair. He takes a swallow of his drink before he speaks. ‘Convinced now?’

Anthea has downed her whiskey in one and holds the glass out for another. Mycroft fetches it without further comment. She sips this one then straitens her posture again. ‘Having spoken to Mr Lestrade, I am convinced of his sincerity. I have also questioned him on several points and will accept your assessment of the situation at this time. I will, however, be implementing several new security measures to avoid the potential loss of sensitive documents. Just as a precaution.’

Mycroft nods. ‘What did you speak about?’ 

Anthea sits back in the chair. ‘With respect, sir, I think that should remain between Mr Lestrade and myself. He agrees.’

Mycroft has stern words with himself. Greg is allowed to speak to whomever he would like and is under no obligation to tell Mycroft anything about it. It is unfair to feel hurt about it. ‘Very well, I shall trust your judgement.’ He pauses. ‘Did he change?’

Anthea lifts her glass and finishes the rest of her drink. ‘He did. Bloody disconcerting.’ Mycroft thinks it must have been to make her swear. ‘He said I’ve been visited before, but not by him.’ An unsettled look crosses her face. 

Mycroft finishes the last of his drink. ‘He saw me when I visited my brother at home. He was visiting Dr Watson at the time.’

Anthea looks alarmed. ‘Sir, I would advise that you do not let your brother discover the existence of Dream-eaters.’

Mycroft imagines that and shudders. ‘I would dearly love to avoid that, though Sherlock has an unfortunate habit of stumbling across that which you least wish him to discover. I shall do my best though. Your security measures,’ he continues delicately, ‘Do you intend to inform others of the existence of Dream-eaters?’ He refuses to hold his breath as he awaits her reply. It would be unnecessarily melodramatic. It would also be laughably obvious to someone as trained in the nuances of body language as Anthea.

Anthea gives him a frank look. ‘Honestly sir, as you said, who would believe me?’

*

Mycroft ventures upstairs to check on Greg but finds him asleep. He takes back his book on the Russian revolution and retires to his own room. It’s early yet but he can’t bring himself to do more work. The relief that Anthea has accepted his assessment of the situation and agreed not to tell anybody makes him feel almost giddy. 

On top of that, his interaction with Greg seems to have brought him more clarity of feeling rather than less. It’s rather embarrassing to find himself entering into his first real friendship aged forty six but he fully acknowledges that he is. His reaction to Greg’s state of mind allows him no hiding.

He tries to read but soon finds he’s not in the mood for an analysis of the Bolshevik's rise to prominence. He eventually concedes defeat and ventures back down to the library and returns with one of his guilty pleasure books; an Ian Fleming novel. Growing up, Sherlock had pirates, Mycroft had James Bond. Ludicrous as he now knows many of the plots to be he can’t help but continue to enjoy the fact that the day is always saved; sadly not a guarantee in real espionage. 

Though he’s enjoying the story it’s not long before he finds his eyelids slipping closed. He’s never understood the way Sherlock despises sleep. Possibly as a result of it’s scarce and broken nature in relation to him, Mycroft has always enjoyed sleep when he has the chance. He’s trained himself to be able to do without, but it’s not by choice.

He’s woken by the dip in the mattress as the weight of someone on the bed moves it. He allows his eyes to open a crack and through his eyelashes he can make out Greg’s face, pale and with the dark glittering eyes that show his changed state. He opens his eyes fully and catches Greg’s gaze.

‘Sorry,’ Greg whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll get rid of the nightmares then go back to bed.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Gregory. I’m used to being woken up. How are you feeling?’

‘Pretty good, considering. Bit peckish, though.’ He grins and Mycroft finds himself smiling helplessly back. In the dark, with Greg so close, it feels far more intimate than usual. Mycroft watches as Greg pulls strands of nightmare off him, no longer disturbed by the action. It seems perfectly natural that this should be the way they end their evenings.

‘Should you really have travelled? Won’t it take up too much energy?’

Greg shrugs. ‘Not if I’m careful, and walking while injured uses about the same. I’ll be fine.’ Mycroft accepts his assessment. Half asleep still, he finds himself considering Greg’s nails. Without the conscious decision being made his hand reaches to ensnare one of Greg’s, careful of the long nails. Mycroft can feel himself flushing lightly under Greg’s questioning gaze and hopes the darkness is enough to hide it. ‘I’m curious,’ he explains. ‘I haven’t had a chance to examine them properly.’

Greg smiles and allows him to keep holding the hand he caught, continuing his ministrations with the other. Very gently, Mycroft runs his finger down the length of one nail. The surface is covered in microscopic cracks where the layers join, and when he turns Greg’s hand over he sees the underside of the nail is not a concave curve as he would have expected of a long human nail but convex, making it more like a claw or talon. Sliced across, the cross-section would be a sharp ended oval. 

He continues his examination, running his fingers over each nail in turn, and suddenly realises he can’t hear Greg breathing when a shiver wracks Greg’s body. He looks up at his face and Greg lets out a whoosh of air and resumes breathing normally. He pulls his hand back. ‘Sorry, they’re very sensitive.’ He looks away from Mycroft. 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I didn’t mean to tickle you.’ Mycroft is a little disappointed that his investigation is cut short but he understands.

Greg gives a nervous sounding laugh. ‘Yeah, ticklish, that’s me.’ He still isn’t looking at Mycroft as he carries on: ‘That’s me finished, so I’ll just… I’ll see you in the morning.’

He fades out without giving Mycroft a chance to answer. Mycroft lies in bed, slightly confused by the reaction. In the end he shrugs it off. Possibly that’s the first time someone has touched Greg’s nails, it was more than likely a little strange. He’ll apologise in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean no offence to anyone working in the Department of Transport. I'm sure you are all very hard-working and diligent people. Mycroft is just a bit sniffy.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning finds Greg well-rested and more or less pain-free thanks to the tablets, and Mycroft feels much more confident leaving him to his own devices. He’s ensured Greg has something to entertain himself with, his mobile is charged and close to hand and he has plenty to drink. He’s still a little hesitant to leave him alone all day but he makes sure to conceal his worry from Greg. 

He’s not sure if Greg has learned to read his micro-expressions or if he simply didn’t hide his reluctance very well, but the first text from Greg arrives before he has even made it to the office.

_You never did say who your favourite Harry Potter character is. G_

Mycroft smiles reluctantly. He thought he’d managed to get away with it. He texts as much to Greg.

_Ha! Can’t distract me that easily. Who is it? G_

Another message follows a second later.

_It’s not someone weird like Luscious Malfoy is it? G_

Then another.

_Damn autocorrect. Meant Lucius. G_

Mycroft laughs, imagining Greg’s embarrassment. 

_No, it’s not Lucius Malfoy. MH_

_Who is it then? G_

_If you must know, I appreciate the subterfuge and double life Snape led. MH_

_Plus, Alan Rickman is sexy. That voice... G_

Mycroft is distracted from his surprised contemplation of Greg’s text by his driver clearing their throat. ‘We’re here Sir.’

Mycroft starts, absorbed as he was in his mind’s frantic analysis of Greg’s words. They’re pretty unambiguous but Mycroft can’t help but look for alternative explanations. 

‘Thank you Michaels,’ he says absently, nodding to them as they hold the door. He makes his way to his office still thinking about Greg’s message. He feels his phone buzz with the notification of a new text but waits until he’s at his desk before he pulls it out to check.

_Either you’re busy or you don’t know how to respond. G_

For a cowardly moment Mycroft considers texting back that he’s in a meeting, but that’s not fair to Greg. 

_I apologise Gregory, I was a little surprised by your text. I would agree that Alan Rickman is attractive and has a very compelling voice, the same with Jason Isaacs. Though I cannot find Lucius Malfoy’s looks enough to excuse his politics. MH_

Greg’s reply is almost immediate. 

_With you there. But really, Snape’s your favourite character? G_

Mycroft tamps down on his frustration. He doesn’t want to discuss Harry Potter characters, he wants to know whether Greg’s really interested in men _And whether he would ever be interested in me._ He frowns. Greg is his friend, nothing more. Yes, he’s very attractive, but Mycroft doesn’t think of him that way. Certainly not more than fleetingly. 

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and returns to the conversation.

_Really. He successfully maintained his status as a double agent working for the Order for years despite the distrust and enmity of his colleagues and risk to his own life, is shown to be intelligent and has a rather biting wit on occasion. MH_

_I guess, but he can be pretty petty and vindictive though. G_

_He is a flawed character, driven by his past mistakes and forced to be in daily contact with the son of his great love and great enemy, whom he must protect and deride at the same time. He is trapped by his love for a mentor who failed to protect him as a schoolboy and who eventually forces Snape to kill him. If he doesn’t always come over as charitable I think it can be excused. MH_

_He goes out of his way to be nasty though. But I can see your point. G_

Anthea appears in the doorway holding a stack of folders. Mycroft gives a small, guilty start and quickly texts Greg.

_I must concentrate on work. I will speak to you later. MH_

He refuses to check the message that comes in a moment later, turning instead to the work that has piled up whilst he was in the Department of Transport the day before. When he checks it later he’s disappointed to see it’s just a simple acknowledgement and hope that Mycroft has a good day.

*

Greg doesn’t text for the rest of the day, and Mycroft has a policy of not texting first whilst he’s at work as it’s too easy to be distracted messaging Greg. He’s only broken the rule twice, once when he needed to vent about Sherlock and once when he needed a boost to push through the last few reports.

Greg is still in bed when he returns home, later than he would have liked. He’s almost half way through the fourth Harry Potter book but looks rested, and Mycroft concludes he slept at some point. The painkillers beside the bed are at the correct stage for Greg to have been taking them on schedule and all in all Mycroft decides it was fine to leave Greg alone. The last little bit of tension, the bit he’s been carrying at the base of his spine since he left the house, relaxes.

‘Hey,’ Greg greets him. There’s something a little cautious in his voice and Mycroft guesses it’s to do with his admission this morning. 

‘Gregory, hello. How are you feeling?’ Mycroft ensures his voice is perfectly even and ordinary and betrays none of the churning preoccupation he’s had all day in the back of his mind. 

‘Good actually. Had a nap earlier and I’ve been enjoying Harry fighting the dragon.’ His voice sounds more sure now Mycroft has indicated that nothing has changed. 

Mycroft checks his side and is relieved to see no signs of swelling or inflammation that might denote infection. The antiseptic cream seems to have done the trick without Greg having to take antibiotics. Mycroft is very aware of how lucky they were on that account. The cut seems to be closing well and he’s sure Dr Walters will be pleased when he visits. 

He goes to make a quick dinner and eats it downstairs, finding it strange to eat in the kitchen alone after only a couple of weeks of eating in the sitting room with company.

He hesitates for a moment then takes his laptop and a few files from his office upstairs to Greg’s room. ‘I have to do some work this evening, but I thought you might like some company as you’ve been on your own all day. I’ll work from over there,’ he indicates the small desk in the room, ‘but I can converse whilst I do.’

Greg’s grin as he answers Mycroft is huge and Mycroft feels a flush of pleasure at his happiness. ‘That would be great! I’m not used to being on my own all day. Reading’s all well and good, but it’s nice to actually speak to someone every now and then.’

Mycroft resolves to text more whilst Greg is confined to bed. He does have a lot of work but he can spare the odd moment for a quick message. He says as much to Greg.

‘Don’t feel you have to. I know you must be pretty busy doing whatever you do. You’re always back so late, you must have a lot of work. I’ll be fine for a few days til I’m up and about again.’

‘On the contrary Gregory, I enjoy our conversations. It is often the highlight and sole saving grace of my day, hearing from you.’ Mycroft bends his head to focus on the files to conceal his blush. He didn’t mean to be precisely that honest.

‘Really? That makes me feel better about bothering you all the time with random bits and pieces.’

‘Really. Your observations and thoughts are frequently amusing, and I appreciate them even if I cannot always respond at the time.’ The softly pleased look on Greg’s face is worth the unaccustomed baring of his thoughts.

‘So you didn’t mind my thoughts on Alan Rickman this morning?’ Greg’s voice is a mix of studied disinterest and guarded caution. Despite his reluctance to face Greg whilst having this conversation, Mycroft turns in his seat towards the bed where Greg is looking intently at the book in his hands and tracing the outline of the dragon on the cover.

‘I will never object to your thoughts on a subject. I may disagree, but there is nothing you could say that would make me wish to stop meeting with you.’ This is the worry at the heart of Greg’s questions, Mycroft believes. ‘Your appreciation of men does not make me uncomfortable and indeed it would be rather hypocritical of me to object to you mentioning your interest.’ 

At this Greg finally looks up from the book and meets Mycroft’s eyes. There’s surprise and relief in his gaze, mixing with something that Mycroft can’t decipher. ‘Must say, I was a bit worried. Not sure you’d be up for having a bloke climb into your bed every night after he’s admitted he likes a bit of the other.’

Mycroft smiles at him, amused and appalled. ‘I assure you Gregory, your appreciation for ‘a bit of the other’ will never bar you from my bed.’ He regrets the choice of phrase immediately. He and Greg are _friends_ , nothing more.

Thankfully nothing in Greg’s face or body language indicates that he has registered Mycroft’s accidental _double entendre_ , and Mycroft won’t draw attention to it by apologising. Like Greg, he is wary of damaging this unexpected and wonderful friendship with unwanted information. Even if Greg was interested in more, Mycroft thinks he would be unwilling to risk it.

He banishes the thought. _Friends, just friends._ Mycroft has done without more than the odd brief liaison for years now and has been quite content with this state of affairs. To simply see Greg every day, talk to him and share in his experiences is worth far more than fleeting physical pleasure. 

It may be time to move the conversation back to safer waters. ‘It occurs to me that I gave you my favourite Harry Potter character and yet you have not returned the courtesy. Don’t tell me it’s ‘somebody weird’ after all your mocking of my choice?’

Greg makes a disbelieving noise. ‘Excuse me, I did not mock. I questioned your reasoning but at no point did I mock.’

Mycroft turns back to his laptop. ‘Enlighten me then, whom do you prefer? I warn you, I expect a fully reasoned answer.’

As Greg begins a spluttered and impassioned defence of the Weasley twins Mycroft smiles to himself. This is worth far more than a brief fling, no matter _how_ attractive Greg is.

*

The weekend passes in a similar vein of texts and arguments over books, with Mycroft spending his afternoons working in what he has begun to think of as Greg’s room. Greg seems mildly horrified that Mycroft doesn’t properly take a weekend and manages to persuade him to at least work part of the day from home. Mycroft suspects it’s at least partially to do with having company on Greg’s part. Greg is clearly on the mend and becoming restless. 

Sunday afternoon, Dr Walters comes by to check Greg’s progress and do a skin prick test for a milder painkiller. Unfortunately within moments of the test beginning Greg has come out in a bright red rash. Apparently Ibuprofen is not recommended for Dream-eaters. Paracetamol produces the same reaction and so Greg goes back to taking Aspirin. Dr Walters warns against possible side-effects and overdosing, but is generally pleased with Greg’s progress. He tells them he’ll be back in four days to remove the stitches. 

Greg insists on celebrating by going downstairs and sitting in the kitchen chatting with Mycroft while he cooks, then falling asleep in the middle of _North by North-West_. Mycroft manages to rouse him enough to get him back upstairs and Greg sleepily removes the nightmares before dropping off once more.

*

Monday is full of meetings, analysis and a minister who seems to think Mycroft is his own personal problem solver. Mycroft manages to remain moderately successful at holding his temper, even after four interruptions, but has Anthea place a note on the man’s file that all calls from him to Mycroft should be vetted first to check for urgency. Anthea is still a little cool towards him but makes no mention of Greg, though several new security protocols do appear on his desk for his approval.

With Greg now able to move around more freely Mycroft dispatches an assistant to purchase him some new clothes. Since he arrived at Mycroft’s, Greg has been wearing Mycroft’s pyjamas and he would likely appreciate something new. Mycroft also requests that they pick up the first three books from the Terry Pratchett _Guards_ series, Greg having professed a particular fondness for them.

Greg is delighted with the clothes and books when Mycroft gives them to him that evening.

‘Wow, Mycroft, this is great! Thanks a million!’ He flicks through the first book happily, beaming at Mycroft, brown eyes wide and shining. Mycroft clears his throat to chase away the pleased grin that wants to emerge.

‘It was no trouble. I thought you might keep them here if you wish. And you can use the laundry facilities here for the clothing as well.’

Greg grins, looking pleased. ‘That would be great! Much easier than sneaking stuff in with hotel laundry.’ His smile softens. ‘Thanks Mycroft, really.’ He looks down at the books again, running his thumb over the spines. ‘First books I’ve actually owned.’

Mycroft feels a lump grow in his throat. He would give Greg as many books as he wants, give him anything he wants. Greg deserves it.

Greg breaks into his thoughts. ‘Actually, this is prefect timing. I really need to go and get some more to eat tonight. I know I won’t be seen, but it would feel weird to go out in pyjamas all the same.’

Mycroft feels an instant of surprise then feels surprise that he’s surprised. He really should have considered whether there were still enough nightmares on him to keep Greg fed. Clearing them regularly would of course impede their growth, and with Greg usually feeding several times in one night, Mycroft alone would not sustain Greg long term.

‘Of course. When do you plan on leaving?’ Another thought hits. ‘Are you healed enough to travel safely? If you end up passed out on someone’s bedroom floor there’s very little I can do to help you.’ Greg is an adult who knows his own limits and has been doing this for decades but Mycroft can’t help but feel a twinge of worry at the thought.

‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll head out about one-ish if that’s Ok?’ A worried look crossed Greg’s face. ‘You don’t mind if I come back after?’

Mycroft thinks this is a perfect time to discuss something that has been building in his mind for a few days. ‘Actually, I wished to speak to you about that.’ Greg looks like he’s bracing for bad news. Mycroft marvels at the way he lets every thought cross his face and rarely considers concealing his emotions. Thinking about it, the only time he has was when he was hiding how much pain he was in after being injured. And part of that may have been Mycroft’s malfunctioning caring side.

He brings his thoughts back in line, not wanting to leave Greg waiting. ‘I find that I have enjoyed your presence here when I return from work, and talking to you in the evenings is a high point of my day.’ Uncharacteristically, Mycroft feels unsure as to how best to phrase his request. He takes refuge from Greg’s searching, questioning look by focusing his attention on tracing the curls of carved wood on the chair in which he’s sitting. ‘If you would like, and please know you are under no obligation to accept, and that nothing will change if you refuse, would you consider making this your home base? You could have this room to sleep in whenever you like, and could come and go as you please with no expectations from me.’ Mycroft forces himself to look Greg in the eye as he finishes speaking.

Greg’s face is blank. ‘Uh, wow, Mycroft.’ He sounds a little lost. _He’s going to say no,_ Mycroft thinks, and has to work to contain the disappointment. 

‘As I said, Gregory, you are under no obligation to accept. You can remain here until you are well again then we can resume our former arrangement, if you would be happy with that.’

Greg sends him a gentle look. ‘I’m not saying no, Mycroft, but it’s a big thing having someone move into your house. And Dream-eaters aren’t really known for putting down roots. Though it might be quite nice to have somewhere I can go. How about we both think about it and we’ll talk after I’ve had my stitches out?’

Mycroft swallows. ‘That sounds entirely practical, Gregory.’ He nods to the clothing. ‘Why don’t you make sure those fit while I make myself some dinner, and then if you like we can find something to watch downstairs.’

Greg nods. ‘Ok, sounds good. Thank you for these, Mycroft.’ He picks up the top item, an azure blue jumper that Mycroft knows is wonderfully soft. Mycroft nods in reply and makes his way down to the kitchen where he refuses to give in to mortification.

*

The text comes through later, whilst he’s sitting in bed. The film had been mildly awkward, both of them lost in their own thoughts and hardly speaking to each other. Mycroft is already wishing he hadn’t made the offer if it’s going to affect their friendship this much.

_Hey Mycroft, just wanted to say that I appreciate your offer and I am thinking about it. I don’t want to lose you as a friend so whatever happens I hope that doesn’t change. G_

Greg left not long ago to feed, and by the tone of the text Mycroft thinks he will return after. He sends back a reply to the effect of him not wanting it to affect their friendship either, then puts aside his book and tries to sleep. It’s a long time coming.

*

The next two days swing between their usual easiness around each other and an awkward tension. Greg still texts several times a day but Mycroft can’t bring himself to be as forthcoming with his answers. He knows he sounds curt and that it’s not helping his promise that things will stay the same between them, but he doesn’t quite know how to rectify the situation.

Thursday brings a visit from Dr Walters who pronounces Greg healed enough to take the stitches out, though he still warns Greg to take it easy, not over do it and to take the aspirin for a while longer. Greg seems relieved; Mycroft feels like his life is unravelling.

Anthea is still unhappy with him, Greg is pulling away, work in the aftermath of Operation Marmoset is still delicate and on top of that it’s taking longer for Greg to free Mycroft of nightmares once more, so when Greg does finally decide the whole thing is too awkward and he doesn’t want to see Mycroft any more, Mycroft is going to have to deal with a vicious resurgence of them.

Walters came by on Mycroft’s irregularly scheduled lunch break and he uses the excuse of having to return to work to escape the conversation he knows is coming. The conversation where Greg says he’s flattered by Mycroft’s offer but not interested in spending all his time with him. Greg has other friends, he doesn’t need Mycroft’s company in the same way Mycroft is coming to realise he needs Greg’s. 

What started out as simply a means to stopping Mycroft’s nightmares has grown into companionship in all corners of Mycroft’s life. Going back to the time before all this will be almost unbearable.

Eventually Mycroft can’t put off going home any longer. He’s worked, he’s exercised and now he’s sitting doing nothing. If he procrastinates any more it will become obvious he’s avoiding Greg. He forces himself to bite the bullet and calls for his car to take him home. He’s at his club, and really the distance between the two places could be easily walked in half an hour. The time it would take to put the necessary security in place to allow him to do so would take more than twice as long. The temptation to declare that he’s going to walk is strong, but Mycroft resists.

The house feels ominous when Mycroft enters. He finds Greg seated in the first sitting room with one of the Terry Pratchett books open on his lap. The other two sit beside him, and beside them are the clothes he bought for Greg just three days ago. Already taking his things and leaving, Mycroft thinks.

Greg looks up as Mycroft hovers in the doorway. He looks as apprehensive as Mycroft feels. ‘Mycroft, hi. Guess we need to have that talk now?’ His lips tighten.

Mycroft nods silently and makes his way to a seat where he doesn’t have to gaze directly into Greg’s face as Greg rejects him. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. In the end, Greg gives a little cough. ‘Guess I’ll start then.’ He doesn’t wait for Mycroft’s reply. ‘I guess it was a good think we took a couple of days to think this over. It’s a big step, asking someone to move in, not something to be taken lightly -’

_Get on with it!_ Mycroft wants to shout. _Stop dragging it out!_

‘- And while I would be happy to, I don’t think you’re quite as comfortable with the idea. It’s OK Mycroft, I don’t mind that you’ve changed your mind. We’ll still be friends, yeah, and I can still come over to watch films with you.’ Greg’s voice is questioning, hopeful and hesitant on the last words. 

It takes Mycroft a moment to process what’s been said. ‘You think _I’ve_ changed my mind?’

Now Greg seems confused. ‘Um, yes? You’ve been pretty distant all week, I figured you were regretting asking me to move in.’

Mycroft takes a moment to check that he heard what he thought he heard. ‘And you would like to live here?’

‘Mycroft, I promise I really don’t mind if you’re not keen, OK? I’d be happy to, but it’s your home and I’ve been looking after myself for more than forty years. You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘I do, though.’ Mycroft admits quietly. ‘I do worry. I worry you are cold, or hurt, or bored. I worry when you don’t text me, I worry you won’t be here when I come home. I worry you will tire of me and the demands I place on you, the complications and problems I bring into your life. I may not need to worry, Gregory, but that doesn’t stop it from happening.’ He looks to the floor as he speaks, the words addressed to the carpet. ‘I asked you to move in from pure selfishness. You have made it a pleasant experience to come home in the evening, not just over the last week but ever since I have come to know you. You make me want to do more than work in the evenings and you provide me with a pleasant companion when I have to work anyway. You have brought so much into my life, and yet I selfishly wished to bring you even further into my sphere, to be assured that I would find you here when I return from dealing with stupid, short sighted, incompetent people and be allowed to listen to you tell me about your day.’ He forces himself to look at Greg, taking in his beautiful face and bewildered expression. ‘If I have been distant this week,’ he finishes, ‘it is because I feared you would no longer wish to associate with me after I made such a blatantly selfish request of you.’

Greg’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment. His voice when it comes is rough. ‘Oh Mycroft. You idiot. I’ve been worried about the same thing, that you’d think I was pushing you to let me stay here so I can see you and chat to you every day, even if you never tell me what it is you do.’ He gives Mycroft a smile that is sheepish and delighted at the same time. ‘I would love to move in, if you really don’t mind.’

This, Mycroft thinks, would be the part in the film where the music sweeps up to a glorious orchestral climax and the two of them realise their mutual adoration and kiss passionately as the credits begin to roll. Instead, they sit grinning at each other slightly foolishly until Mycroft decides to go and make dinner.

*

Greg leaves briefly and brings back his few bits and pieces, gathered over the years and stored wherever he could. He spends what seems to be an unnecessary amount of time arranging them on the dresser before coming downstairs to join Mycroft in the second sitting room and watch _Make Mine Mink_ , both of them giggling ridiculously over the on-screen shenanigans. He removes the nightmares from Mycroft then leaves once again to find more to eat.


	5. Chapter 5

Though little changes outwardly, inwardly Mycroft is beginning to worry. It hit him not long after they had the conversation about Greg moving in. He knew he found Greg attractive, that was obvious, but his thoughts about them realising their mutual adoration… That is less easily swallowed.

Their routine has changed little. Greg still texts Mycroft throughout the day and they still spend their evenings together reading, discussing something or watching a film. Greg still visits Mycroft’s bed to remove the nightmares then returns to his own room. The only real difference is that Greg is around in the mornings too, discussing his plans for the day and wishing Mycroft a good day as he leaves. 

Having Greg around the house is both extremely enjoyable and an exercise in self control. Mycroft didn’t fully realise how much it would affect him to see Greg first thing in the morning, sleepy eyed and hair tousled. Traitorous thoughts keep slipping in, thoughts of how he wants to walk up behind Greg as he perches on a bar stool at the kitchen island and kiss his neck, wrap his arms around him and feel him rest back against Mycroft’s chest. When he replies to Greg’s texts he wants to sign off with a kiss. In the evening, sitting on the sofa, he wants to curl his legs up and tangle them with Greg’s. 

This is moving beyond friendship on Mycroft’s part.

He didn’t anticipate how knowing Greg lives with him would change his attitude towards him. Realistically little has changed. They were spending a significant portion of their free time together before this, and the minor change shouldn’t feel so momentous. 

Mycroft is forty-six years old. The way he reacts to Greg’s presence, he’s beginning to feel like he’s seventeen.

It’s a delicate balancing act. The slightest hint of interest from Mycroft could destroy their friendship, drive Greg away and leave Mycroft alone. On the other hand it could bring them closer together, make the friendship into something more. The situation is a stalemate with no end in sight, and it consumes more of Mycroft’s attention than it should.

The thought occurs to Mycroft one night that his feelings could be coming to the fore simply due to the new proximity between the two of them, combined with Mycroft’s biological clock urging him to find a partner. Possibly, he hypothesises, if he were to attempt to meet other people with the intention of dating he might find his reaction to Greg slipping back into one of easy friendship, and his attentions focusing on a more suitable partner. Accordingly he sets out to acquire himself a date.

It’s been a few years since he last indulged in more than a brief liaison and most of his flings he met through work, people in a similar situation to his, too busy for or uninterested in more permanent arrangements. However, as he has risen through the ranks it’s become less easy to find someone who would be suitable. Many would see it as an opportunity to get a leg up in their career or to gain favour. Then there is the issue of security clearances and subordinates and to be honest there’s nobody Mycroft can think of who’d be worth the trouble.

He dismisses online dating immediately. Who has the time to run background checks on everyone? The same goes for casually meeting someone in a social setting. The only semi-social setting he frequents with any great regularity is The Diogenes, and the thought of dating anyone from there… his shoulders give an involuntary twitch at the unappealing thought.

Another traditional way is meeting people through friends and family. But anyone Sherlock might suggest would either be wildly inappropriate or deeply suspicious. Or both. And the mocking would be incessant. 

Mummy would delight in setting him up with the offspring of one of her friends, most of whom are ghastly and all of whom are banal. Their children are simply younger copies and are no better.

The thought of asking Anthea is inconceivable.

Most of the people he went to school and university with have drifted out of his life, deliberately on his part. Of the few who remain, only one is really suitable to ask. Tristan and his parter Ives work in GCHQ, and Mycroft sees them both professionally on a semi-regular basis and likes them enough to occasionally see them socially. A carefully worded email to Tristan gets him a meeting the next day, nominally to discuss recent intelligence gathering in the wake of Operation Marmoset, but Mycroft knows that he can subtly steer things in a more personal and relaxed direction. One of two off hand comments about how difficult it is to meet anyone, the odd admiring remark about how lucky Tristan, is and it’s very likely that Tristan or Ives will email within the next three days about something frivolous and casually drop into the conversation a friend of theirs who would be ‘perfect’ for Mycroft.

The meeting goes exactly as Mycroft anticipated and the next day brings an effusive email from Tristan saying how lovely it was to catch up, they should do it more often and oh, does he know Brian from NCSC?

He arranges to meet Brian for dinner on Friday and Mycroft tells Greg he’s going to be busy that evening. It’s been a week since Greg moved in and he’s been spending more time out of bed and pottering around the house each day. By Friday he’s well enough to travel out and about for a few hours to catch up with some of his friends. Both of them have agreed that it would be better if Greg didn’t mention to other Dream-eaters his new living arrangement.

Mycroft has informed Anthea that Greg has moved in and she took the news with nothing more than a disapproving tightening of the lips. Mycroft can tell that her research into Dream-eaters hasn’t gone any further than his did, and she’s not happy about it. Her displeasure is made more serious by the fact that his tea has been perfectly made and not a single cake or biscuit has crossed his desk since she learned the truth about Greg. He fears this may be a relationship that does not return to it’s former ease.

He leaves the house to meet Brian before Greg returns home, regretful that he’s missed him. The restaurant they arranged to meet in is an upscale French place, well regarded in culinary circles. Brian is on time, a point in his favour, and they make the usual ‘getting to know you’ small talk while they chose their meals. Mycroft spares a fleeting thought as to whether Greg is home yet but otherwise concentrates on his date. They cover cuisine preferences whilst waiting for their starters, travel destinations while they eat their starters and await their mains, books and music over their mains and by the time they’ve finished their main course they’ve moved on to discussing political influences on literary themes.

The evening is pleasant, Brian is very nice, but they both acknowledge that there’s no spark. They part ways and Mycroft returns home with no small relief, anticipating Greg’s stories of his day.

He finds Greg in the first sitting room when he comes in, reading a true crime novel. Mycroft joins him on the sofa and can’t help thinking how this is the best part of his day, drinking tea with Greg and listening to his thoughts on a book Mycroft has never read and likely never will. He wants to kiss Greg hello, curl up beside him and rest his head on his shoulder, cuddle together until he can take him to bed.

This is an alarming escalation of interest on Mycroft’s part. Clearly he will have to redouble his hunt for someone else to focus on.

*

The next week brings a perfect opportunity in the form of a charity gala Mycroft needs to attend. The weekend was a seesaw of want and denial and Mycroft took refuge in his office to escape the terribly wonderful presence of Greg being utterly mundane. He had some respite when Greg went out for a couple of hours to people watch and keep an eye out for nightmare growth, but otherwise he was constantly around, intrusive without trying. Mycroft _has_ to meet someone else so he can regain his ability to concentrate. 

The gala is attended by roughly two hundred well-dressed people. Mycroft is perfectly aware of the effect evening dress and alcohol has on people’s perceptions of attractiveness and intends to use it ruthlessly to his advantage.

He finds himself chatting to a woman in her late thirties who works for the Department for Digital, Culture, Media & Sport. Samantha is intelligent and attractive, career minded but not to the point of obsession, with a biting sense of humour that Mycroft appreciates. She would be an interesting dinner companion and enjoyable company socially. Mycroft finds himself distracted, thinking about Greg, wondering what he would make of the occasion, imagining him in a well tailored tuxedo. He even catches himself wishing he’d invited Greg as his plus one.

He wrenches his attention back to Samantha to find her smiling ruefully. ‘I was going to ask for your number, but I’d guess by that look you’re already seeing someone.’ Mycroft gives a flustered denial and Samantha’s smile turns knowing. ‘But there’s someone you’d _like_ to be seeing, yes?’

_You don’t know the half of it,_ Mycroft thinks forlornly.

After Samantha moves away he makes a couple more circuits of the room, but his heart’s not in it and he ends up leaving early. Greg is out when he arrives home and he takes the opportunity to have a long soak in the bath. Rather guiltily he also revisits the image of Greg in a tuxedo, and Mycroft is very glad Greg’s out of the house at the moment.

Greg appears shortly after Mycroft emerges from the bathroom, and irrationally Mycroft fears the evidence of his thoughts and actions are visible in every move he makes. He forces himself into utter inscrutability as Greg asks him about his evening and goes to bed soon after. Having Greg lie beside him to remove nightmares without being able to touch is fast becoming nightly torture. 

*

Mycroft makes one last desperate attempt to date, ignoring the increasing futility of the idea. He invites to dinner a member of the British diplomatic corps currently attached to the Foreign and Commonwealth office in London. They’ve met a time or two through work and admired each other’s wardrobe choices. 

Sebastian arrives punctually and attired in a lovely Kilgour suit. By the time the main course arrives, Mycroft wants to fake a work emergency to escape. That or shoot himself in the foot. Either would do. Alternately, he could shoot Sebastian in any part of his body. Only his reluctance to injure the lovely suit and then deal with the paperwork after prevents him. In the end he disconnects entirely from the conversation beyond making appreciative noises at appropriate intervals. It doesn’t seem to dissuade Sebastian but it does leave Mycroft free to think about work and, inevitably, Greg. He’s been toying with the idea of introducing Greg to some of the BBC’s better crime dramas, given his fondness for the literary genre. He’s musing on the merits of various shows when he realises the noise across from him has stopped. He re-engages to find Sebastian looking at him with a distinctly miffed expression. Ah. Evidently his disinterest has finally been noticed.

The date ends shortly after, neither man interested in continuing it. Mycroft can’t bring himself to care. He can count this attempt, indeed, all his attempts to drive Greg from his mind and return his interest to a platonic one as unsuccessful. His interest in the human race one on one has not increased since his last forays into dating. Greg is and will remain a special case.

Just how special is highlighted when Mycroft comes home to find Greg asleep on the couch, a different horrible true crime novel open on his chest as he snores, mouth open. Mycroft feels a great welling of affection and fondness and is helplessly unable to deny his feelings. _Love. I love this wonderful, ordinary, extraordinary man._

He nudges Greg awake and is greeted by a sleepy smile, warm and happy to see Mycroft. ‘Hey. How was your night?’

Mycroft collapses onto the sofa and lets every bit of his dismay show. ‘Atrocious. Horrendous. Never to be repeated.’

Greg grins. ‘Want to watch something, take your mind off it?’

Mycroft gives a heartfelt sigh. ‘That sounds like the best proposition I have heard all week.’ _Although if you were to proposition me in a more… personal manner, that would top it by far._

Greg levers himself up and offers Mycroft his hand. ‘C’mon, lets head through. I’ll even let you pick tonight.’ He looks sly.

Mycroft fakes outrage. ‘You’ll let me pick? Well, how kind of you, considering it’s _my_ night to choose.’

Greg’s grin widens. ‘Damn, and I thought I’d get away with it.’ He pulls Mycroft to his feet and they head to the second sitting room. Mycroft can already feel his humour restoring itself as he follows Greg. If this is the only relationship he’s destined to have with Greg, platonic, supportive, fond and gently teasing, it’s already far better than any other he could imagine. He would be content with this. _That’s not to say,_ he thinks as his eyes drop to Greg’s arse, perfectly proportioned in his jeans on the stairs above Mycroft, _that if more were on offer I would not take it._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where this earns the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag. Please be warned.

Slowly over the next few days Mycroft begins to feel out Greg’s reactions to him. He drops hints, makes oblique references and behaves in a manner that is ever so slightly suggestive. He makes sure that anything he does can be written off as simple friendliness should Greg not return his interest. So far Greg seems oblivious to all his hints.

On Mycroft’s part, any sign of interest from Greg would be welcomed but he doesn’t want to read something into Greg’s behaviour that’s not actually there. He doesn’t dare risk showing too much of his own feelings towards Greg for fear of making the situation awkward and full of unreturned attraction, ultimately driving Greg away.

He thinks about it in meetings when the conversation lulls, in and around briefing subordinates and peers, and as they lie together, not touching, as Greg pulls away strands of invisible nightmares. It invades his every waking moment. 

The situation is ameliorated by the sheer simple appreciation he has for spending time with Greg. He looks forward to evening all day, a complete reversal from only a short while ago when he avoided evenings and dreaded sleep. It’s always a disappointment when work prevents him from returning home at a reasonable hour. 

Nearly a month after their new arrangement began and a week after the final disastrous date, a series of high level and delicate negotiations begin to grow more complicated. As the evening of the second day wears on, Mycroft reluctantly accepts that he’s not going to make it home tonight after all. He texts Greg to this effect and receives a disappointed acknowledgement in reply. 

He settles in to prepare for another long night of complicated negotiations and is pleasantly surprised when the other party agrees to an unexpected compromise around 3am. The terms are satisfactory on both sides, but it displays a more astute understanding of the situation had negotiations continued than Mycroft expected from the other party. He makes a mental note to have any new players on their side investigated, requests Anthea call for a car and push his early meetings back until later in the day and tells her not to come in til midday. She did exceptional work in preparation for this meeting and deserves the extra time off. He can manage his meetings tomorrow morning on his own; there’s noting terribly mentally strenuous. 

The car is waiting when he steps out of the building. He’s vaguely surprised to find it’s raining. Michaels has chosen to stay in the front seat rather than get out to open the door. Very sensible, Mycroft thinks, shaking rain off his umbrella. He climbs into the back with a sigh of relief. He’s exhausted from lack of sleep and the rigid control he has maintained over the last two days. The locks on the doors click and the car pulls away. He gives thought to texting Greg to let him know he’s on his way home but decides not to. Greg will either be there already or arriving home soon as well, there’s no need to send him a message. 

Michaels has standing orders to vary the route home to avoid the possibility of ambush, so it takes Mycroft almost ten minutes to realise they are not heading in the right direction. He closes his eyes for a long moment in disbelief at his own carelessness. He never actually _saw_ Michaels in the front seat. He takes his phone out without much hope. No reception, as he thought. Probably a signal jammer. He casually casts his eyes about looking for a camera, and spots one tucked into the seam of the seat opposite. 

He checks his watch, fiddles intently with his cufflink as a decoy and then, careful to make the action seem natural, fidgets with the hem of the umbrella canopy and breaks the microfilament hidden inside. Unless the signal jammer is advanced military-grade this should send a distress signal out. Even if the signal jammer is a powerful one, unless the umbrella is kept near it at all times the signal should break through. He will likely be parted from the umbrella by that point, but it will give Anthea and his security team a starting point.

The car continues on for an hour but Mycroft doesn’t let himself become less alert. He idly tries the button to lower the bulletproof window and is utterly unsurprised when it fails to respond. In the end he sits back and closes his eyes, assesses likely outcomes and wonders how long the car journey will last.

Eventually a change in the sound of the tyres indicate they’ve turned off the paved streets and onto gravel. The car slows, pauses, then continues again on concrete at a much slower pace. It stops a few seconds later and the engine turns off. Mycroft is ready. The locks click and he reaches for the door handle, opens the door and steps out. 

As expected, the car has arrived in a warehouse, the kind that Mycroft occasionally borrows to intimidate people in. If it has the same effect on them as it has on him, he needs to find a new tactic. Though he would _never_ be as gauche as to surround the car with heavily muscled men in shabby suits and obvious gun holsters. He prefers a more subtle menace.

He turns to the largest man, the one in a slightly less shabby suit. Likely the leader of this welcoming delegation. He allows himself to indulge in his dramatic side for a moment. He puts on his most haughty expression as he speaks. ‘Take me to your leader.’

The man is too well-trained to respond other than to gesture him forward. As he moves through the warehouse, something about it tugs at his memory. It’s not until he sees the door that he remembers. He forces himself to keep moving at the same pace. He wants to stop, to turn and run from what he imagines he will find behind that door. Anybody who can kidnap him with so little fuss and bring him to a warehouse he didn’t think anybody knew his connection to should have no problem populating it with those Mycroft would least wish to see here.

The sudden fear has dug its way into him so quickly and deeply that it takes him a minute to realise that the scream of the hinges as the door opens has been supplied by his memory. The jarring disconnect brings him out of his fear long enough for him to regain control of his mind. He forces himself to critically analyse the situation.

Four men with guns who probably won’t hesitate to use them. Unknown number of people behind the door, possibly including some friendlies. He has weapons, and his training will allow him to take out at least one opponent, but in the fight the men will move against him and any hostages they may have. It’s uncertain as to whether his distress signal has gone through and he will probably not be missed until mid-morning tomorrow if it hasn’t.

The odds of the situation aren’t good.

This flashes through Mycroft’s mind in a second as the door swings fully open. He must hesitate a fraction too long and one of the men behind him pushes his shoulder to move him forward. As he enters the room there’s a bewildering second where he registers that there are no bodies on the floor. Then he realises that there is no one in the room at all. All there is is a metal chair, bolted to the floor in the centre of the room, sturdy enough that it would take some time to break. Two of the men hang back by the door, hands on their holsters while the other two grab Mycroft’s upper arms firmly and pull him towards the chair. He doesn’t resist as they handcuff him to it and he makes no demure when they remove his cufflinks, tie pin, watch, phone and umbrella. They cuff his legs to the chair too, then take his things and leave, switching the light off as they go.

Mycroft keeps his heart rate steady through force of will. The situation could most definitely be worse. He refuses to waste his time panicking. Instead he sits in the dark and runs through his options and the possibilities of who could be behind this.

He estimates it’s around 6.30am when he hears footsteps on the concrete outside the room. He’s narrowed it down to two possibilities and can go no further without more data. He has instead moved on to thinking about work, Greg, Sherlock, and attempting to recreate the London Symphony Orchestra’s performance of Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet note perfectly in his head. Anything to keep himself from obsessing about what’s to come. He left field work for a number of reasons and on the whole he doesn’t miss it, but he certainly doesn’t miss the threat of violence. 

Mycroft closes his eyes in preparation for the light coming on again. He doesn’t want to give his captor the advantage of temporarily blinding him. 

By the forceful way the door is thrown open and light floods the room, Mycroft thinks his captor imagines him to be cowering in fear and totally unprepared for their arrival. This allows Mycroft the last data point he needs to narrow down their identity. Only one of the two is unaware of Mycroft’s time as an active MI6 agent and thus likely to assume this kind of intimidation will work. The other would have sent the hired muscle in first to ensure Mycroft wasn’t lying in wait.

‘Miller, thank you for joining me at last. It is rather poor manners to have me escorted here and then fail to greet me personally.’ He opens his eyes and takes in Miller’s surprised expression. ‘But then again, I probably should have expected as much from a man who thinks puce is a cunning sartorial choice.’ The contemptuous flick of his gaze takes in Miller’s wardrobe.

Miller stares at him for a moment then laughs. ‘Oh, you’re a cool bastard Mycroft Holmes. But then I always suspected you were a bit of a sociopath. You don’t really feel anything, do you? Like that brother of yours.’ He pauses and smiles unpleasantly for a moment. ‘I had thought to have him waiting here when you arrived, but he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for my admittedly rather obvious trap.’ The _unlike you_ is implied. ‘Never mind. You’re here, and that’s the main thing. I imagine you know what this is about.’

Mycroft has an idea. ‘Jameson's body was discovered last week.’ The erstwhile leader of Operation Marmoset. Left like the rather gruesome hunting trophy of an enormous cat outside the British Embassy. Due to the sensitive political situation, the body had to be treated as that of an unknown man and the local police called. Repatriation, even in death, was not a possibility.

Mycroft can see the repressed rage beneath Miller’s calm facade. ‘I worked with that man for eight years. I mentored him from the moment he joined MI6. He was a brilliant man with -’ 

‘With insufficient experience to act as team lead for a mission of that scope and subtlety. In a year or two perhaps he could have succeeded, if he’d had some of the arrogance knocked out of him. But he was made aware of the risks before he undertook the mission. I am sorry,’ Mycroft pauses to look away for a moment. ‘I knew he was not ready and I should have pushed harder to have someone else assigned as lead. Of that I am guilty.’ 

If Mycroft had hoped his words and admission of guilt would act to calm Miller’s anger, Miller’s next words leave him in no doubt that it hasn’t worked.

‘Nice. Very touching. Perhaps a little overdone, but I can’t imagine you have much truck with admitting you were wrong. It’s not really your style, is it?’ Miller stands in front of him, hands in his suit pockets, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his expression mockingly sincere. It changes to grim blankness, rage still lurking.

‘Jameson contacted me after you abandoned him. He told me you undermined him to make Hakimi look better, and that you made sure she made it out alive. You deliberately gave him outdated intelligence and hung him out to dry. He warned me you’d use this to undermine me in turn, that you said I’m gaining too much influence. You and that silent little assistant of yours have been working on something hush hush, and I knew you were making plans. I watched you and when you met with GCHQ, NCSC and then the Foreign and Commonwealth Office I knew you were coming for me. I debated waiting for you to make your move and gather information to de-throne you when you did, but then I decided; why let you chose the playing field? Easier to simply remove you and then offer myself to lead the investigation. I’ll make sure the, ah, _right_ people are blamed.’

Mycroft imagines that his disappearance will be linked back to Hakimi in some way. Miller is vicious and petty like that. Mycroft’s current situation is a case in point. It’s not really surprising that people have noticed his and Anthea’s research on Dream-eaters, but it’s unfortunate that Miller has interpreted his dates this way. It does, however, shed some light on why Jameson acted as he did, considering how his mentor is behaving.

Jameson was given the information they had and warned it might not be accurate. Part of the mission was to check their sources in country. When Jameson contacted Mycroft to inform him that due to acting on the information given without checking it they had missed that a source was compromised and the team had moved on an incorrect target, Mycroft let his temper overwhelm him and lead him to make an unwise comment. If he remembers correctly, his comment was that he would make Miller aware of his displeasure over his protégé’s poor judgement and reasoning skills, and that his behaviour reflected badly on his mentor. In the fall out from Operation Marmoset Mycroft had not done more than make an official note that Jameson had not been fully ready to assume command, and that pressure from Miller had lead to an unwise appointment. He felt that the outcome spoke for itself. 

However, pointing this out is unlikely to be appreciated. In his mind, Miller has all the proof he needs of Mycroft’s plans to remove him, regardless of the fact that Mycroft had no plans. All that is left is for him to have his moment to gloat and exact revenge. 

Pertinent to the planned revenge; ‘And you chose this warehouse as the venue because?’

Miller’s face turns to ice. ‘Jameson was tortured. For days. You left him there and he suffered for your manipulation. Thought I might return the favour in his honour. I went through the records of past operations you directed, even the buried files. Never involved directly, were you? But you send others out so easily, never a thought to what they might encounter. Human trafficking, wasn’t it?’ Miller’s voice is full of smug certainty as he asks, confident that he has one up on Mycroft. ‘This warehouse was one of their main holding points. You sent three agents to reconnoitre and report back. Including Paulson.’ His expression turns musing. ‘You know, I think he’s the one person you’ve actually felt something for. Not much, as I’ve said, you’re a cold bastard, but you hand-picked him and mentored him and then you sent him to die. I thought you might appreciate the trip down memory lane.’ The grin on Miller’s face has been growing throughout the speech as he revels in his own cleverness. With his last words the nasty edge shines more clearly through.

‘It certainly has been enlightening. What do you intend to do now?’ Mycroft injects his voice with unconcerned interest.

Miller walks to the door and speaks to someone outside. He returns followed by a tall, broad man carrying a toolkit. He’s not smiling any more.

‘Jameson had all him limbs broken, his stomach was sliced to ribbons and his back was flayed before he died. God knows how long he lasted like that. Now, I fully admit that I don’t have the stomach for that level of torture. That’s where Mr Trooper comes in. He’s an expert in knife work, though he’s never tried flaying before, interestingly.’ He turns to the man who’s been steadily unpacking a selection of knives whilst Miller talks. ‘Start with his arms, I think, Mr Trooper. Break them first, then begin on his shoulders and work your way down to the fingers. I’ll be outside when you’ve finished with the starter.’ He gives Mycroft a last, beaming smile as though he’s arranged a wonderful treat for him. ‘See you in hell, Mr Holmes.’ He walks out and shuts the door behind him. 

Mycroft turns his attention to Mr Trooper, who has been waiting patiently whilst Miller pontificates. With the closing of the door he begins to move towards Mycroft, the matte club in his hands contrasting with the beautifully polished knives laid out on the toolkit by the door. 

Mycroft decides this has gone quite far enough. He stands up, pulling his hands and feet free of the loosely clasped cuffs. At Mr Trooper’s look of shock he smiles. ‘Lock picks, my good sir. Always have a set on me.’ Though some people will think to remove a belt to check for concealed weapons, nobody ever suspects braces. Mycroft has found it useful on more than one occasion to have handcuff keys and an inch long sliver of a blade concealed in the clasps of his.

Mr Trooper’s resolve seems to harden and he moves with more purpose towards Mycroft, raising the club as he does. Mycroft will have to remove him from the equation before he can attempt an escape. 

He spends a second observing Mr Trooper’s movements to watch for weak points. He can’t see anything obvious to target and he wants to avoid being hit with the club. 

He grabs a pair of the handcuffs previously used to hold him and stuffs them quickly in his jacket pocket, before turning swiftly to face Mr Trooper again. He’s just in time to catch sight of Mr Trooper’s swing towards him with the club. Muscle memory and training kick in and allow him to lunge forward towards the swing and grab Mr Trooper’s arms, trapping them and protecting his own ribs at the same time. Despite the significant weight advantage Mr Trooper has on him, Mycroft is able to use the momentum to swing him round and onto the floor. Before he can complete the manoeuvre that would allow him to pin the man to the ground and restrain him, Mr Trooper manages to use his greater weight to pull Mycroft down too so he ends up sprawled on top of him. Unfortunately for Mycroft, the proximity of the chair and the fact that it’s bolted down means that as he falls he catches his head on the sharp corner of the seat. He hits the floor face first.

The resulting burst of pain and immediate welling of blood from the slice to his scalp distracts him enough to loosen his grasp on Mr Trooper’s arm, the arm that’s holding the club. He finds himself sprawled on the floor as Mr Trooper heaves him off but he manages to scramble to his feet at the same time as Mr Trooper, thus avoiding the kick to his ribs that would have surely followed had he not. Instead Mr Trooper swings with the club again and this time Mycroft is not close enough to properly trap his arms and avoid the blow.

The club hits his upper right arm with enough force to render it temporarily numb. It immediately drops from the defensive position Mycroft has it in to hang uselessly at his side. Mycroft moves sharply back, out of range of a second swing. He assesses the distance to the door and the toolbox with it’s knives beside it. He won’t be able to make it without sustaining further injuries. 

His head swims a little, the blow and the pain combining to leave him off balance for a second. Mr Trooper is moving towards him and Mycroft shifts his position to put the chair between them. He takes a precious few seconds to fumble with his left hand for the small hidden knife at his back. He keeps retreating as he does, trying to move diagonally so as to avoid both the club at his front and being boxed in by the wall behind. 

The knife snaps free of his braces clasp and springs open. The blade is short but lethally sharp. It may not save him if he simply stabs Mr Trooper in the abdomen but it is enough to cause severe damage, especially if applied to the face, neck or upper arms.

Mr Trooper is moving to swing again, targeting Mycroft’s undefended right side once more. Not used to fighting people who fight back, Mycroft thinks grimly. Recycling previously successful moves instead of attacking strategically. 

Mycroft’s right arm is still numb and unusable, and another strike will likely break the bone. A broken bone, however, is much easier to recover from than a severe beating followed by extensive knife work to the arms. As such, Mycroft makes the lightning fast decision to step into it, to take the hit to his arm and use the closeness and the fact that Mr Trooper’s front will be unguarded to his advantage.

The blow, when it comes, is more painful than Mycroft expected, given that his arm was numb already. The club hits his elbow and the jolt and burst of pain lets Mycroft know something has broken, even without a sound to give it away. The pain sends a shock-wave through him and leaves him dizzy and off balance once more.

Despite this his left hand keeps firm of the blade, moving before he has time to think. He slices fast and deep across Mr Trooper’s neck and knows a second later that he’s hit an artery. Blood spills out faster than Mycroft can comprehend. Or avoid. His shirt and waistcoat are quickly saturated. 

Mr Trooper’s hands fly to his neck, dropping the club as he does. He makes a strangled sound, desperately trying to put pressure on the wound even as he begins to sway on his feet. He sinks to his knees, hands pressing close on the cut despite his already weakening grip.

It doesn’t take long before he’s unconscious on the floor.

Standing over the downed body of his attempted torturer, the adrenaline begins to ebb out of Mycroft, leaving him very aware of the cut on his head and the ache in his arm. Nausea is quick to arrive, followed by dizziness in full force. He kneels carefully beside Mr Trooper and searches him for a phone. No luck. He makes his slow way over to the toolbox by the door and listens for a moment. No sound from outside. No phone in the box either. Miller can’t be far in that case

Mycroft knows he has to go through the door and get out of the warehouse, find some way to contact his team. The distress signal can’t have gone through, or if it did it gave no trace of his location. That protocol will need to be upgraded.

He allows himself to slump against the wall, holding his broken arm as still as he can. He’ll give himself a minute, just to let the worst of the dizziness and nausea pass.

*

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he’s brought back to himself by the sound of a gasp and a shocked choke. He raises his head slowly, still nauseous, and finds Greg, brown eyes wide and terrified, kneeling in front of him.

At Mycroft’s movement, Greg gives a gasp of relief that breaks off into a strangled sob. ‘Oh Christ, Mycroft, hang on, OK? Where are you hurt?’ One of Greg’s hands digs frantically in his pocket whilst the other flutters towards the cut on his head and the blood beginning to dry in his hair. Greg’s phone is in his hand a second later and his attention diverts to it as he manipulates the keys, shooting panicked glances at Mycroft every few seconds.

‘It’s me.’ Mycroft realises he must have lost a couple of seconds when he hears Greg speak. ‘I’ve got him, but he’s in bad shape. Can you trace the phone? Quickly then.’ Greg’s voice shakes slightly as he speaks. He puts the phone down uncaring beside him, line still open, and tuns his full attention to Mycroft. 

He begins pulling at Mycroft’s waistcoat, fumbling with the buttons in his haste. With that out of the way he starts working on Mycroft’s shirt. 

‘What are you doing?’ Mycroft feels a faint stirring of alarm and surprise but they seem very distant. The only emotion that registers is a slight curiosity.

Greg doesn’t stop his task as he replies. ‘Got to get this off you, see where the blood’s coming from.’ As he works he inadvertently jostles Mycroft’s arm. Mycroft can’t stop himself crying out with pain, and the nausea overwhelms him, pushing bile up his throat. He manages to lean to the side enough that he doesn’t splash any on himself, but anything more is beyond him.

At the first cry of pain, Greg’s hands flew back as though burned. ‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mycroft, _where are you hurt?’_

Mycroft spits out a last bit of bile before he manages to speak. ‘Arm. Head. Not my blood.’ His thoughts feel slow. With a terrible certainty he focuses beyond Greg to where the body of Mr Trooper lies. By the pool of blood encircling it Mycroft knows he’s definitely dead.

Greg follows his gaze, twisting awkwardly on his heels. At the sight of the body he rocks back. ‘Fuck! Right, OK, is he the one who attacked you?’

Mycroft manages a tiny nod and realises instantly it was a mistake. Nausea rises again but he manages to choke it down. He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

‘Mycroft?’ Greg sounds very worried. ‘Don’t go to sleep, OK? Mycroft?’

‘Hurts. Sick.’ Mycroft can’t manage more than that.

‘I know, I know but Anthea will be here soon, OK? Just don’t go to sleep.’

‘’k.’ It’s more of a sigh than a word. Mycroft can hear Greg breathing. He sounds stressed. A scraping sound indicates that he’s picked up the phone again.

‘Anthea? How much longer?’ He pauses, then speaks again. ‘I’ll see. Mycroft?’ Mycroft pushes a sound out in response. ‘Do you know who’s behind this?’

Mycroft forces his brain to emerge from the fog of pain and sickness and reconnect to the process of thought. ‘Miller. Hired people. Probably still in the area. Waiting for his call.’ He twitches a foot towards Mr Trooper. Greg relays this to Anthea then Mycroft hears him stand. 

‘Just going to check outside.’ He opens the door before Mycroft can tell him not to.

‘No!’ Seconds late, the exclamation brings another wave of bile with it. Mycroft manages to swallow it down as Greg slams the door closed.

‘’S OK, there’s no one out there.’ Mycroft feels too miserable to even approach relief, but a minute later the sound of footsteps on concrete lets him know the door slamming didn’t go unnoticed.

‘Already, Mr Trooper?’ Miller’s voice. Mycroft forces his eyes to open and he raises his uninjured arm to beckon Greg closer to him. Greg complies without delay. 

‘Miller. Will likely have a gun. Shoot both of us. Go now.’ Mycroft keeps his voice low. The footsteps are coming closer.

Greg looks shocked. ‘No way! I’m not leaving you here. Anthea’s coming with the cavalry soon. I’ll lock the door and we’ll wait here.’ He gets up and moves quickly to the door. Mycroft hears him swear quietly a second later then Greg’s back beside him, looking grim. ‘No key.’ He seems to be about to say something more but at that moment the door opens.

Framed in the doorway once more, Miller takes a step back at the sight of Mr Trooper’s body lying on the floor. He doesn’t notice Mycroft and Greg on the ground next to the door and Greg takes advantage of Miller’s moment of shocked hesitation to launch himself up. He crashes into Miller’s side, knocking him sideways and into the edge of the door. Miller takes a wild swing at this surprise attacker but his blow is too flailing to have much force behind it. Greg manages to hook an ankle found Miller’s leg and pull him off balance, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Miller tries to squirm round, holding Greg off him whilst reaching for his belt where Mycroft can see the grip of a gun, but he’s untrained and Greg is fighting dirty, not hesitating before using his forehead to smash Miller’s nose. Miller’s free hand automatically flies up to cup his nose and Greg takes the opportunity to grab the hand twisted into his shirt and rip it loose, pinning it to the floor in a way that leaves Miller trapped awkwardly, half on his front, one hand still holding his nose and the other being knelt on by Greg.

‘Greg,’ Mycroft manages to get out, then again ‘Greg!’ when Greg doesn’t seem to hear him. Greg twists to look at him and Mycroft throws him the handcuffs from his waistcoat pocket. Greg lets them clatter onto the floor beside him then reaches for them, viciously elbowing Miller in the back of the neck when he makes an attempt to move. He secures one wrist then manages to haul the other out from beneath Miller, with a grunt of effort and another judiciously applied elbow, to cuff it as well. He sits back, straddling Miller then turns to Mycroft. 

‘I’ll stay here for the moment. Anthea should be here soon. How are you doing?’

The adrenaline burst from Miller’s reappearance has chased the fuzziness from Mycroft’s head. He takes stock. ‘Broken arm, cut head. Bruised ribs, too. Not too bad considering that one wanted me flayed.’ At this, Greg’s face fills with rage and he looks as though he’s considering punching Miller, but in the end decides against it. Mycroft can’t say he’s not a little disappointed, but he’s not surprised. It’s not in Greg’s nature to hurt someone unless in self defence.

‘I take it Anthea called you when my distress signal was received?’

Greg shakes his head. ‘She found me, but there was no distress signal. The surveillance on your brother picked up the attempted kidnapping and eventually passed it on to Anthea to see to. She decided it warranted disturbing you, and when you didn’t answer your phone she tried to trace it. She couldn’t get a signal so she came by the house in case you were home and your phone off. You weren’t there but I was, and when I said you’d not come home she went straight to battle stations. I suggested that I go looking and call her when I found you. Which I did, thankfully.’ He glares daggers at Miller’s back.

Mycroft can’t help but think how lucky he is to have Greg and Anthea in his life.


	7. Chapter 7

Anthea arrives soon after with the rest of his security and a private medical team. He imagines that heads will roll once she begins to put together how somebody managed to kidnap him. There’s not much point having a security team if they can’t prevent a kidnapping or even notice when it happens.

As Anthea directs the medics and calls the hospital to get a room set up, Mycroft catches her nod to Greg, the one that means she tentatively approves of him. It’s a start.

At the hospital it’s decided that Mycroft’s arm will need minor surgery to realign the bones. He’s give a local anaesthetic and then open surgery to put everything back in it’s place. They won’t put a cast on in order to keep an eye on the incision, so it’s braced and put in a sling. He’s given a dose of painkillers to help when the anaesthetic wears off and left to sleep the sleep of the drugged.

When he wakes it’s late afternoon and he desperately needs the bathroom. He manages to leaver himself up, taking care not to jostle his arm, and makes his way to the en-suite off his private room.

Afterwards he settles back into the hospital bed and rests his head on the pillows. The scalp wound has been closed with butterfly bandages but the hair around had to be shaved, and Mycroft can imagine how silly it must look. Maybe he’ll take a leaf out of Greg’s book and start wearing a hat. A fedora, he muses, with a hatband to match his pocket-square. He’s beginning to drift off again when his hindbrain sends out an alert. 

_There’s someone in the room._

‘Hello Gregory.’ He doesn’t open his eyes until he hears Greg sit down on the chair beside his bed. When no words are forthcoming, he pries his eyes open and turns his head to look.

Despite the low light in the hospital room, Mycroft can see Greg’s eyes are suspiciously damp. ‘Christ, Mycroft, I thought I’d lost you. When I got there and there was all that blood...’ He trails off, looking at the floor. Mycroft moves slightly in the bed and reaches his hand out to rest on Greg’s arm. 

‘My dear, this is not the first time I have been in that sort of situation and I have never sustained more than moderately serious injuries.’ He’s killed in self defence before and he knows it will take some time to process, but he will eventually come to an acceptance. ‘I am fine, there is no need to fret.’ He keeps his voice low and soothing but it doesn’t seem to have the desired effect. Greg slumps down, burying his face in his hands. A muffled sob sounds before Greg lifts his head and looks straight at Mycroft once more. 

‘All it would take is one time, Mycroft. You’re my best mate, I can’t lose you. If I hadn’t got there in time...’ He breaks off again.

Mycroft runs his hand down Greg’s arm to grasp at his hand. It doesn’t take much to pull Greg up, on to the bed and in to a hug. He can feel Greg shaking slightly as he puts his arms around Mycroft. They hold on to each other for a long moment before Greg pulls back and sits back down, but he keeps hold of Mycroft’s hand. They sit quietly for a while until Mycroft feels himself drifting off once more. He closes his eyes and lets his body fully relax. He feels Greg let go of his hand and rest it on the bed on top of the blanket beside him, then he hears the tell-tale clicking, shifting noise of Greg pulling away strands of nightmare.  
The rhythmic sounds and fluttering feelings above his head are soothing, letting him know all is right with the world. It takes longer than usual for Greg to finish and Mycroft realises that the nightmares must have fed on his kidnapping. 

The motions stop eventually, but Greg doesn’t leave and Mycroft wonders why. He’s about to make the herculean effort to open his eyes once more and check if Greg’s OK when he hears him stand and step closer to the bed. Mycroft keeps his breathing even and slow, not giving any indication he’s aware of what Greg is doing. A second later he feels lips on his cheek, warm and slightly chapped. They linger for a moment then pull away and Mycroft hears Greg step back again.

‘Good night, love, sleep well.’ He pauses for a long moment. ‘Love you, Mycroft.’ A second later the room is empty of any presence save his own. Mycroft keeps his eyes closed and breathing even, but his mind is wide awake. Was that the fear of losing him speaking, or does Greg really…?

He ponders this question for a long time until he eventually drifts into a doze.  
*

Greg doesn’t show up again until the next evening. Mycroft spends the day working one handed on his laptop with Anthea fielding calls in his office with tales of an unexpected trip out of the country. Miller’s quiet disappearance has yet to be commented on to him. Mycroft imagines it will be another day before he is requested to look into it. By then, a convenient cover story will have been put in place for Mycroft to ‘uncover’ and inform the appropriate parties. It’s unlikely Miller himself will ever be found.

Greg brings him _Blackadder the Third_. He grins as he shows Mycroft. ‘Thought we could watch it on your laptop.’

Mycroft smiles. ‘That sounds ideal, Gregory. If you would join me on the bed we shall both be able to see the screen clearly.’

Greg looks doubtful. ‘Won’t that hurt your arm?’ Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

‘Not if you sit on my left. I can move over and there will be plenty of space.’ Greg still looks uncertain but as Mycroft moves himself he comes to join Mycroft on the bed. 

They settle together, space on the bed cramped. Though it is larger than an ordinary hospital bed it’s still not designed for two. As the title sequence rolls past and Blackadder begins complaining about bills, Mycroft can feel Greg begin to relax next to him. He deliberately resettles himself against Greg and in response Greg presses further against him. By the time Prince George has begun ranting about socks, they are both resting back against the pillows and leaning heavily on each other. Greg’s arm has come to rest across Mycroft’s back, pulling him down until his head is on Greg’s shoulder. 

They sit in silence broken only by the occasional chuckle. Every so often, Mycroft can feel a brush of air through his hair as Greg mouths along with the dialogue. He doesn’t bother to suppress a yawn when it comes. He’s warm and comfortable and it’s wonderful to have Greg here, and Mycroft has a sudden moment when he realises that this must be the feeling the rest of the world experiences, sitting with a loved one doing something mundane and marvellous. 

Without thinking, he turns his head slightly and presses an appreciative kiss to Greg’s shoulder. A second later it hits him and he looks up to see Greg looking down at him, hope and fear warring in his eyes.

‘Mycroft...’ Greg’s voice is hoarse. Mycroft can’t tell if he’s about to get a ‘thanks but no thanks’ or if Greg feels the same way Mycroft does. Either way, he’s made his own feelings clear and so he decides to take a chance. He turns his head once more to kiss Greg’s shoulder, keeping eye contact as he does. 

Greg sighs in response and closes his eyes. _Relief,_ Mycroft thinks with a giddy swoop of his stomach. _Greg is relieved I feel this way._

Greg lets out a shaky exhale. ‘Are you sure, Mycroft? Really sure?’ He opens his eyes and gazes at Mycroft. ‘I’m in deep here, have been for a while. I can’t – I can’t just be a convenient body for you. I love you,’ Greg looks away for a second before seeming to gather his courage and look back to gauge Mycroft’s reaction, ‘and if you don’t feel the same way that’s fine, but if you don’t think you could feel the same way in the future then I think it would be better if we stuck to friends without benefits.’ He looks away again and gives a self-depreciating laugh. ‘Unless you’d rather not be friends with me at all now.’

Mycroft forces himself to sit up on the bed, leaning back to survey Greg’s face as he does. He can’t speak for a moment. ‘Gregory - ‘ he starts, then has no idea how to continue. Beside him he can feel Greg tensing as though expecting harsh words.

‘How could I not love you?’ Mycroft eventually manages to get out. ‘You are – everything,’ he finishes softly. He can hardly believe this is happening, that Greg returns his feelings. ‘I think I have loved you since the night you comforted me and put me to sleep. You have become the most important person, the one I long to see every day, and it has been both terrible and wonderful to have you living with me, so close and yet be unable to touch and interact as I would wish. I did not want to say anything or pressure you, but if you truly feel the same way…’ He takes a breath. ‘I’m in deep too, Gregory. I love you, and I can’t imagine not wanting you long term.’

Greg’s eyes have opened once more and he focuses on Mycroft’s face as he speaks, warm and caring and happy and Mycroft can’t not lean forward and kiss him properly. 

Greg kisses him back, gentle and eager at the same time. He brings his hand up to cup Mycroft’s face, stroking a thumb lightly over Mycroft’s cheekbone, bruised from contact with the warehouse floor. The kiss goes on, tentative and affectionate at the same time. 

Eventually Mycroft is forced to pull away as he begins to slip down the bank of pillows, weight not supported properly in this new position. Greg looks worried for a moment until he sees the reason for Mycroft’s movement, at which point he just looks fond. 

‘Here, let’s get you sorted again.’ He helps Mycroft rearrange the pillows to support him properly then he shuts down the laptop, gets off the bed and moves to sit in the chair next to it. Mycroft makes a displeased noise.

‘Gregory, what are you doing? Come back here.’

Greg grins at him, happiness blazing from every feature. ‘I’d love to, love, but you’re injured and exhausted. You need rest, not me pawing at you.’

Mycroft frowns. ‘You were not pawing at me, and I am not exhausted. Now I demand you come back here and kiss me again.’

Greg shoots up and leans forward, pecking him briefly on the lips and retreating before Mycroft can get a proper hold on him to keep him in place. ‘There love, that’ll have to do until you get home. I’m not going any further until you’re out of hospital.’ Mycroft’s attempt at a scowl is interrupted by a yawn. Greg laughs. ‘C’mon love, I’ll send you to sleep. They’re letting you out in the morning, right?’ Mycroft nods, still yawning. ‘Well, I’ll be there when you get home and I’ll give you a welcome home kiss. Alright?’

Mycroft grudgingly agrees and lies down. He’s done barely anything all day but exhaustion washes over him quickly. He gives a sleepy hum. ‘You won’t need to send me to sleep at this rate, my dear.’ He can hear the smile in Greg’s voice as he agrees. ‘Stay with me until I fall asleep?’ He barely hears Greg’s assent before he’s asleep. He briefly surfaces when he feels lips press against his forehead, but _Greg, it’s only Greg_ says his brain and he settles down once more.

*

Discharge from the hospital comes shortly before lunch, a blessing for Mycroft as even in a private hospital the food cannot be described as appetising. He texts Greg with his new phone to let him know he’ll be home soon and receives a return text comprising of a smiley face followed by a succession of X’s.

His driver drops him off in front of his house and he makes his way up the steps. Greg must have been alerted by the motion detector as he’s coming down the stairs when Mycroft unlocks the door. He looks wonderful as he grins and walks down the hall toward Mycroft, taking the bag containing his laptop and tugging him into a not terribly chaste kiss. ‘Sorry,’ Greg says, pulling back. ‘Been looking forward to that since I said goodnight. How are you doing?’

Mycroft has also been looking forward to the welcome home kiss and feels a little peeved that it’s ended already. He says as much. Greg rolls his eyes. ‘Still don’t need me pawing at you, love. You’ve got a long way to go until you’re healed.’

‘Gregory,’ Mycroft says sternly, ‘I refuse to constrain myself to meagre pecks when I have been restraining myself from kissing you since you moved in.’

Greg gives him a wicked grin. ‘I’m not saying you have to constrain yourself, I’m just saying let’s take it slow.’ A hint of uncertainty crosses his face. ‘We should probably have a bit of a conversation before we take this any further anyway.’

Reluctantly Mycroft agrees. He nods. ‘Very well Gregory. Shall we adjourn to the sitting room? I will make us some tea.’

Greg shoots him a look. ‘ _I’ll_ make us some tea. You can’t carry the tray with that sling.’ He gives Mycroft a quick, reassuring kiss before heading off to the kitchen.

Mycroft picks up the bag Greg left and puts it in his office before making his way to the first sitting room. He can’t help but feel a little apprehensive about the coming conversation. Greg’s actions since Mycroft arrived don’t lead him to believe that Greg has changed his mind, but what if Greg thinks they shouldn’t live under the same roof while beginning a relationship? He sits and stews until Greg arrives with the tea tray.

‘Put out some of those biscuits you like, the Viennese Whirls. Do you want me to make you up a cup?’ Paradoxically, the evidence of Greg’s nerves make Mycroft feel less uncertain. 

‘Please. That would be most helpful, thank you Gregory.’ Greg prepares them both cups and they sit on opposite ends of the couch in slightly awkward silence. Greg breaks it after a minute. 

‘Guess I'll begin again, huh? I just want to sort out what you expect from this. I don’t want either of us to jump in without realising what we’re getting into.’

Mycroft nods. ‘Very sensible. Shall I start? Very well then.’ He clears his mind and orders his thoughts. ‘I would hope that things wouldn’t alter drastically from their present arrangement. I very much enjoy spending time with you, and I would like it if our current living situation continued. I wouldn’t expect you to move into my room straight away, or I into yours, but I would like that to be a future consideration. Other than the addition of physical affection and hopefully a deepening emotional connection, I wouldn’t want much to change. What are your thoughts?’

Greg takes a moment to reply. ‘I feel the same. I think it’s a good idea if we have separate rooms for a bit, and there won’t be any strenuous ‘physical affection’ until you’re healed. Otherwise I agree with you. But if either one of us feels the relationship isn’t working or we want to change anything, we need to discuss it properly.’ Mycroft nods in agreement. ‘I don’t want to stop being friends just because we’re going to try for more.’

Mycroft feels exactly the same. ‘Gregory, had you not felt the same way and we had simply continued to cohabit as good friends I would have been almost completely happy with that. I am delighted our relationship is moving into less platonic waters, but I cherish your friendship first and foremost. I am extremely grateful you proposed that first arrangement to help me with my nightmares.’

Greg looks abashed. ‘Yeah, well, truth be told that wasn’t entirely selfless on my part. You were the first human I had properly spoken to and I wanted to get to know you. Really, after the first week or so I could have come every second or third day and you would have been fine, but I used it as an excuse to get to see you.’ 

Mycroft can’t bring himself to be anything other than amused by Greg's admission. ‘I’m very glad you persisted. If you hadn’t I would never have invited you to stay and watch a film and would never have got to know you properly.’ He pauses and sips his tea. ‘With that off your chest, is there anything else you would like to say?’

Greg looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Can’t think of anything off the top of my head. You got anything to say?’ Mycroft shakes his head and Greg gives him a wide grin. ‘Think I should welcome you home properly then, hey?’ He sets his cup aside and Mycroft just manages to do the same before he has an arm full of carefully amorous Greg.

They kiss for what seems like hours before Greg eventually pulls away. ‘Christ, you’re good at that. Much more and I’ll forget we’re taking things slow.’

A part of Mycroft wishes Greg _would_ forget, but the rest of him acknowledges that he’s not quite up to any more just yet. Instead he finds himself being gently manoeuvred until he’s resting back against Greg’s chest. A careful wriggle ensures he can reach Greg’s lips, and he settles back with a contented sigh. ‘It hasn’t properly sunk in that this is happening. When you didn’t pick up on any of my hints, I thought you weren’t interested.’

Greg hums behind him. ‘I’m not that oblivious, I did pick up on them. I was just a bit worried you wanted something casual or convenient. When you spent that evening stroking my hands it was all I could do not to jump you. Used too much energy travelling back to bed so you wouldn’t see how much I liked it.’

‘Not just ticklish, then?’ Mycroft files this information away for future consideration. ‘And I would never consider a relationship with you as simple convenience. If anything, the amount of time I spend thinking about you and resenting not being able to be with you makes is quite _in_ convenient.’ Greg’s arms tighten around him slightly and a puff of warm air passes his ear as Greg gives a silent huff of laughter. Mycroft takes a deep breath. ‘And you? Is the only reason you decided to accept my overtures because you feared losing me?’

Greg takes a moment to answer and Mycroft wishes he could see his face in the interim. ‘I suppose partly, but it’s more that when I saw you slumped against that wall, covered in blood,’ he stops and swallows before continuing, ‘I was so scared you were dead, and when you weren’t I realised I couldn’t bear the thought that if you had died you would never have known how much I love you. Don’t get me wrong, I was scared of losing you, losing your friendship if you decided it wasn’t worth it after a quick fling, but in the end I decided it would be worse if I didn’t try, and when you kissed me...’ Mycroft can feel Greg shrugging. ‘Didn’t want to waste any more time.’

They sit in silent contemplation for a while, drinking in each other’s company. Greg breaks the silence eventually. ‘How are you coping with what happened?’

Mycroft forces himself to be honest. ‘It has not fully sunk in yet. That was not the first time I have been forced to kill but I find the necessity deeply unsettling. In the past I have taken advantage of the staff psychiatrist, and I believe I will do so again.’

Greg rewards him with a quick kiss on the cheek which Mycroft moves to intercept and redirect. They fall back into lazy kissing until the mood is broken by the rumbling of Mycroft’s stomach. Greg laughs and pinches his side. ‘C’mon love, let’s get you something to eat.’ Mycroft lets himself be hauled to his feet and straight into Greg’s arms where he is treated to a thorough kiss before being chivvied through to the kitchen for food and painkillers.

*

Sherlock visits the next day. Mycroft is not certain how Sherlock knows he’s been injured, but suspects it’s been deduced from the lack of a personal visit following Sherlock’s attempted kidnapping. 

Greg is out when Sherlock arrives and Mycroft is taking a break from work to relax in the sitting room. The head wound didn’t leave him with a concussion but it still aches if he stares at a screen without break for long periods of time.

Sherlock focuses first on Mycroft, the brief visual inspection taking in his injuries and reassuring him that they are not life threatening. He then takes an automatic look around the room. This is followed by a slightly longer and more thorough analysis, taking in the second tea cup on a side table and the Terry Pratchett book beside it. He swings back to Mycroft, eyebrows raised. Mycroft fights the urge to deny everything.

‘Well,’ Sherlock drawls. ‘You _have_ been busy. Nightmares cured by true love?’ he continues sardonically. ‘You _do_ look like you’re been sleeping more, though with a new relationship that might not be such a good thing. Middle age catching up with you?’

Mycroft wants to throttle him, but decides to take the high road. And throttling is difficult with only one working arm. He raises his chin. ‘Thank you for asking, Sherlock, I am quite well. And in answer to your _other_ unasked question, Gregory and I have been friends for a while and our relationship recently became more intimate.’

Sherlock smirks. ‘If you’ve moved him into your house then the idea of a goldfish can’t have been as abhorrent as you made it out to be.’

Mycroft has a retort ready to deliver but he’s distracted by the sight of Greg materialising in front of him. ‘Mycroft, you’ll never guess what -’ He spots Sherlock and breaks off, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘You _really_ need to start texting me when you’ve got company.’

Sherlock manages to close his gaping mouth before he snaps his head round to stare at Mycroft. ‘ _How?_ ’

*

The explanation takes much longer with Sherlock than it did with Anthea as Sherlock can’t stop asking questions. In the end Mycroft has to threaten to kick him out when he begins to ask questions Greg is clearly not comfortable answering.

Finally Greg, exasperated, promises to come round to Baker Street the next day to allow Sherlock to do some very minor tests and answer more questions. Mycroft feels reassured by the fact that should Sherlock try to take liberties, Greg can simply travel out of the flat. 

As Sherlock prepares to leave he pulls Mycroft aside.

‘I am glad to see you acquired yourself a goldfish. Though I suppose you found yourself something a bit more exotic.’ 

Mycroft turns to look at Greg where he’s collecting the tea things to take to the kitchen. He feels an enormous rush of fondness for both Sherlock and Greg. ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’ He is in no way referring to the fact that Greg’s not human.

‘You know,’ Sherlock drawls contemplatively, ‘I have long suspected that there was another side to the world just beyond the edge of my understanding.’ His eyes follow Greg with an edge of satisfaction.

Mycroft look at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. ‘No you didn’t.’

Sherlock’s smirk quirks up at the edges. ‘No,’ he admits, grinning, ‘I really didn’t.’

*

_Six months later..._

‘I’m home!’ Greg’s call echoes through the house. Mycroft, lounging in the first sitting room with a glass of wine, a book of Finnish poetry and Brahms on the stereo, feels a shiver of warmth through him at Greg’s words. Even though it’s been over six months since Mycroft first invited Greg to share his home, the words never fail to bring a lightness to his heart. 

‘In here!’ Mycroft calls back and hears Greg’s footsteps coming along the hall. A moment later his lover arrives in the room, hat already pulled off and fingers running through his hair to rake it up. He makes a bee-line to Mycroft, bending down to kiss him hello. Mycroft puts a hand on his chest, still encased in the leather jacket Mycroft bought him for their six month anniversary, the leather cool to the touch from the outside air.

‘Mmmh.’ A pleased hum as their lips part. ‘And how was your day?’

Greg shakes his head. ‘Your mad brother called me this afternoon and had me travel to Brighton to talk to some antique shop owner about turn of the century Japanese paper fans, then sent me up to Aberdeen to ask the same questions. _Why_ he couldn’t have found this stuff out in London is more than I can gather.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Sometime I think he just likes testing me. How was your day?’

Mycroft tells him the basics and marvels at the domesticity of the whole scene. A year ago the mere though of discussing his day with somebody, _making small-talk_ , would have been dismissed by him as a waste of time and energy. What he failed to realise was how the sheer mundanity could be pleasant, touching base with someone as part of your routine, asking after their life not necessarily out of fascination or to obtain information but simply because you care, you wish to be involved, play a central role and show them in turn that they are important to you.

They move through to the kitchen, still chatting, and Mycroft assembles himself a simple dinner before they adjourn to the second sitting room. The film they choose has been seen before by both of them and they continue to talk sporadically throughout the screening.

Once the film finishes they go upstairs together, then Greg leaves to feed and Mycroft gets ready for bed. Early breakfast meetings mean he will need to be awake before five in order to prepare. He reads a little more before switching off the light and clearing his mind to rest.

A warm body slipping into bed rouses him not long after. Arms wrap round his waist and Mycroft lets out a pleased, sleepy hum at Greg’s embrace. Warm, slightly chapped lips press against his cheek and linger for a moment before Greg settles back against the pillow. Mycroft wriggles slightly, pushing back to rest more closely against Greg’s body before drifting off again, secure in the knowledge that whatever dreams he has are sure to be sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I think this is the strangest thing I will write. It just caught me one day and wouldn't leave. Not sure where it came from, but I hope it's been a least a little enjoyable.  
> I am not a doctor, and not everything can be answered by google. Please forgive any medical inaccuracies. This is also unbeta'd, so any grammer/spelling/logic/continuity errors, please forgive as well. I tried my best.
> 
> This is not based on the Baku from Chinese mythology. I had the idea for something that eats nightmares, and then after I started writing, I went googling and found the Baku.


End file.
